


The Walking Miracle

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Daryl, Between Season/Series 03-04, Blow Jobs, Bottom Rick, Complicated Relationships, Confrontations, Explicit Language, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Mental Instability, Mentions of Shane, Mpreg, Not really a cure, Parenthood, Protective Daryl, Psychological Drama, Rick POV, Rick is bitten by a walker, RickGrimes!Mpreg, Rickyl, Sadistic Governor, Sexual Content, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Some Humor, Top Daryl, Unresolved Romantic Tension, mpreg!Rick, so many feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick Grimes is captured by the Governor and experimented on with a so-called <em>cure</em>, except the only way to test if it works is to be bitten by a walker. However, before the Governor can get any results, Daryl comes to Rick's rescue and after a hot night in the shower together, Rick thinks he can just wash the last twenty-four hours of his life away...</p><p>But what exactly did this <em>cure</em> do to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you ALL so much for the positive reviews - guests and users alike! We never imagined our story would be this well-received since it's the first, if not only mpreg!Rick in the TWD fandom. If you haven't already, please subscribe, kudos, bookmark... whatever. Oh, and if you didn't already know, your comments are a great source of motivation and are sincerely appreciated. Cheers!
> 
> **Please Note: This story was originally published in First-Person POV (Rick), but has now been updated to Third-Person POV (Rick). End Notes have more details. Happy reading and thank you so much for your continued patience and support!**
> 
>   
> 

Waking up to darkness.

This wasn’t a new experience for Rick, just something he took note of. Something he did occasionally, actually, like an old habit, whether it be on the road or at the prison. Every morning. Every night. Every day. It was all the same to him, really. The shadows of his mind, continually haunted by the ghosts of the dead. The gloom of living, just trying to survive until tomorrow’s sunrise. Those sorts of things.

But today… well, today felt different. It was a literal, damp darkness, too damp for the middle of winter, and there was this ring. Nothing too involved, but intention was there. High enough to drive a dog mad if Rick had to guess, notching the tiniest of noises ten times their worth. Which was bothersome to a point, but nothing Rick didn’t think he couldn’t handle. Nothing he couldn’t _tolerate_.

His body though, that was another story.

Rick felt numb, his limbs sore from top to toe. ‘Specially above his shoulders. His head was pounding, feeling about ready to pop off like a cork, like he was shaken then left to settle, and he silently cursed at the pressure. Most of it was gathered behind his eyes, as if there was something there, hiding, and no amount of stressing could change the fact that this wasn’t a good place to be in. Mainly if things picked up, if he had to _act_ , fend for himself – something Rick didn’t want to think about just yet. Not with how things were, and not when he wasn’t even sure what to call _this_ …

His situation.

The daze he was feeling, it almost took him back to Atlanta City. The herd, the tank, his bag of guns. Except this was different. He wasn’t inside a tank, or around a city, and Rick knew for certain he hadn’t discharged any guns. Or at least _thought_ he hadn’t… Actually, he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to be thinking. He wasn’t seeing straight. He wasn’t seeing anything at all for that matter, even with his eyes cracked wide open. But one thing was for sure…

He was _alive_.

His strong pulse reminded him of that as the minutes marched on, and after what counted close to three Rick took the opportunity to finally roll his head on whatever surface he was lain to look around, which was when he sensed something behind his left ear. It felt like a bump, something swollen and netted with blood among his hair, and the longer Rick kept at it the more it stung – the more it spiked pain through his skull and he grunted. It seemed he’d just found the source of his ache, his raging headache, if he could call it that, but just to be sure he tried to double-check with a reach.

Except he only got so far.

Rick’s hand never rose any higher than his side. It hovered there next to his belt like it was asleep, and soon he was wondering how long _he’d_ been asleep. The same went for his legs when he made an attempt to sit up and move them, which were prickling uncomfortably. But even with the effort there when Rick lifted his head it felt like it was about to burst from the slightest change in gravity, so he stopped and decided to start again. Slower.

After all, speed wasn’t always the answer. Not with things like this, and once Rick was on his side he was beginning to think he had enough strength to swing his feet to the floor. That was before he actually rose though, and just as he pushed himself up from where he sat, a gurney by the feel of it, the sensation to fall hit like a wave, a strong pull about as deadly as the undertow of the ocean, and Rick curved.

But he didn’t let himself collapse, not when it meant tumbling back to square one – staying down. Instead, he locked his knees and held firm. Hell, he was standing and that’s all that mattered right now. Not the bitterness in the air that was lingering on his face like a cold hand, one leaving him frosted and chilled despite its faint touch. The touch of death. Every day this season yet, and after pitting a quick shiver Rick set out with a wide lean forward, eager to figure out where he was.

Except all it took was a sharp tug to his lower arm to impound that ambition. Something was keeping him tied, and it was only after a second or two of pulling that Rick realized power wasn’t going to work. He’d have to be patient, and while he walked his right hand down his left his first thought was that his jacket’d been snagged on a nail… until he felt something else.

Metal.

There was metal there clamping his skin. Not a nail, or even a rusted hook, for that matter. It was something smooth, something that encircled his whole wrist like a bangle, and Rick felt his forehead crease with confusion before he tried again with another pull. But when the result was the same, his panic turned into frustration.

This wasn’t right. None of it was right. His people, his _family_ , they knew better. They knew that when shit hit the fan everybody stuck together, so why… why was he alone?

The hair on Rick’s arms stood on end as he forced himself to look around more carefully, to squint, since there wasn’t much light to draw on, only that reaching in from outside or from where he was standing, which appeared to be some kind of small room, one he didn’t think he recognized, and the longer Rick stared the more his guess churned into fact.

This wasn’t his home. It wasn’t the prison.

It couldn’t be, and Rick made a disgusted sound at himself for not figuring it out sooner before he dropped low, to his knees, and made to scavenge for something he could use to break free from his restraints. A paperclip, a piece of wire, anything would do. But the darkness had Rick fumbling blind and in his blur he possibly hit a side table. _Possibly_ because he couldn’t really tell, but the force at which he grit his teeth was the same. Hard. ‘Specially when Rick heard the unexpected scuff of a boot and the tinkering of keys somewhere outside the room, a noise that had him frozen still.

 _Don’t run, fight_. That was Rick’s first impulse. But as he knelt there favoring his decision, his gut feeling, something he’d learned to trust over the years, told him to hide. So he did without a second thought. With his body as his compass Rick made a slapdash retreat to his immediate left, seconds before he was reminded of the manacles. They snapped him like a bridle and threw him off balance just as there was a loud _click_ – the sound of the room’s door unlocking, and Rick only managed to back himself into the gurney by the time it opened.

But his search for cover wasn’t fast enough to beat the light. It stretched wide from the outside, overpowering his sight in a blanket of white, a flash far too great for his eyes to stay open and they jammed shut long before his body even coiled and his hand went up to shield his face, leaving his ears to track any movement in their stead. His visitor, whose voice came nothing short of sarcastic… or memorable.

_“Now this’s somethin’.”_

It was the accent that gave it away, the smooth tone that Rick knew to be explosive, pleasant one minute, full of hate the next, and behind it only one person came to mind – _one man_ Rick knew to carry his words with such jovial quality during these deranged times.

The devil himself.

_“Though I gotta say, Rick, hidin’s a bit beneath ya, don’cha think?”_

Rick felt his skin crawl at the insinuation, just as he felt there was nothing beneath his dignity besides contempt and history, and when the footsteps stopped he forced himself to look up, which was when he realized he wasn’t really hiding, per say. He was more like misplaced, kneeling there in front of the gurney, too big to fit under it and too tied to get away from it, and Rick curled his lip at his own mistake.

“Governor.” He greeted, hoarsely, like he hadn’t drunk for days, which was acknowledged with a smile. The kind of smile meant for the owner of a new Ferrari, and that didn’t sit quite right with Rick. Not one bit, and he showed it by rattling his bound wrist. Once. Twice would’ve been considered an itch. “To what do I owe this _honor_?”

This _entrapment_. Rick was close to letting himself slip on that word, but instead chose something with a little less taste. He was already working enough anger around his tongue as it was, ‘specially when finally seeing what’d had him restrained the entire time.

Handcuffs… _His_ _own_ handcuffs, and if wearing them wasn’t bad enough the Governor soon teased with a point.

“Oh, those? They’re just, uh, a safety precaution. Compensation for our lack’a _trust_.”

There was a glint of deride in the man’s eye, let alone emphasis, and Rick was close – _so_ close to provoking with an, _I wonder why_ , but managed to fight the temptation. After all, if he’d learned anything in the past, it was that silence was more powerful than strength alone. Particularly with a man who knew how to twist meaning and talk with violence, and when the Governor extended a hand in a gesturing manner towards the gurney, Rick already had an idea of what to expect.

False security and lies.

The Governor was just that type of man. Rotten to the core. Inside and out. Rick knew the nature, he’d been in the crosshairs of this sort of gallantry more than once not to, and since he wasn’t buying this little charade he almost wished the Governor would give it up. But no. It seemed this over-the-top guise was something the sociopath just _had_ to do, either to practice his hospitality or quell his trapped demons.

Maybe both. ‘Cause soon out came a laugh, funny bone tickled for minutes before the Governor blinked, heavily.

“Please.” He motioned to the gurney again. “Sit.”

Except the man’s insistence didn’t sound any less believable out loud, not when Rick couldn’t get past the undertone. The demand, which’s what it was, really. Masked coercion, and Rick doubted chivalry was the only thing the Governor had on his mind. It’d died a long time ago, just like the man’s sanity, and Rick didn’t have enough control to stop himself from tensing as he watched the Governor’s face dissolve into a stare – one he returned even harder.

But other than that, Rick didn’t budge from where he was at. He _couldn’t_ , not until the Governor turned away to grab a stool for himself from a nearby table, and instinctively Rick felt the urge to jump the man. It was there, right there in his legs, the adrenaline, rising like a tide. But no matter the rush it seemed common sense was the froth. The first thought in line. ‘Cause even with the Governor’s back facing him Rick figured he didn’t stand a chance of landing a hit. Not with the cuffs around his wrist or the distance, and by the time the man returned Rick was complying with the request.

“Thank you.” The Governor said as he set the stool down, charmingly, like he’d just won something besides obedience, and Rick had to behest himself from baring his teeth as he sat on the edge of the gurney.

 _It wouldn’t solve anythang_ , he told himself. Gratitude was gratitude, regardless of the dichotomy, and with ambition but a bridge between men Rick tried to keep it level. But in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the man, not fully, and not without drafting bitter curiosity. “Whaddya want?”

“What do I _always_ want?” The Governor adjusted the stool with the tip of his boot, purposely grinding the metal legs against the cement floor in a harsh scrape forward, towards Rick – a noise that did little to cover the fact that he sounded like a broken record.

But Rick didn’t blink, only focused his stare. He could tell when he was being prompted, and frankly, it was something he wanted to avoid. ‘Specially with how things ended in the past, how everything blew sky-high with bruised egos and a mountain of casualties, on one end more than the other. And the Governor knew this. He _knew_ , yet still wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, so instead of beating around the bush, Rick gave in.

“Last time we spoke it was my surrender.” He tilted his head in place of a shrug. “You still after that?”

“Seems I got it this time.” The Governor roused as a smile found its way back to his lips.

It was an expression that stretched slowly, menacingly, like the man was aware he’d just touched on something tender, and Rick wanted to flat-out spit a, _we’ll see about that,_ but chewed at the air instead and settled for an absent nod – one that could’ve been stirred between a yes or a no. This was a test, it had to be. The Governor was _testing_ him, seeing how far he could push him, push his buttons, and Rick cleared his throat. He couldn’t afford to lose face now, not when he’d taken far worse.

“So how’d I get here?” Rick motioned around the room with his eyes. He figured he deserved that much – answers – even if the switch in topic was abrupt, showing that the Governor’d gotten under his skin. But the man’d had his fun and Rick wanted his, and it wasn’t like his question was frowned upon. It was more like welcomed, as he noticed when he heard a chuckle. Something light.

“You don’t remember? Didn’t think I hit ya that hard.” The Governor slipped around to the front of the stool. He was obviously being witty, and acknowledging that made the pit of Rick’s stomach knot with disgust. More so, after the man’s next line. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

It came across nothing short of a boast, a claim, and Rick watched sullenly as the Governor finally pulled at the slack of his pants to make his seating right before lowering himself onto the stool and folding his hands atop his lap. It looked like he was ready for a therapy session, like he was waiting for them both to exchange their lifelong stories or darkest secrets, and Rick clicked his tongue against his teeth when he felt his eyes wanting to stray again. But that only lasted until he saw the Governor’s left hand… which was wounded, bandaged, and when Rick found himself staring a little too long it was held forward.

“Compliments of your henchmen.” The Governor wriggled what he could of his fingers, stiffly. The injury didn’t look that old, maybe like it actually caused him some pain, and Rick felt his lips squeeze at his own amusement. But he didn’t let himself smile. That’d only rib the beast.

“Which one?”

“The greasy one.” The Governor leaned back slightly, withdrawing his hand just enough to use it to motion at his hair, and despite the brief flash of understanding he saw spark across Rick’s face he continued like he didn’t notice. Though it was more like for his own clarification. “Your bowman.”

And this time Rick scoffed. This was good. It meant his kidnapping, for the lack of a better word, hadn’t gone unnoticed. It meant _somebody_ was out looking for him. If not one, then the whole damn group and Rick could only hope they’d find him soon. ‘Specially Daryl. Man’d have a real bone to pick with this dog, everybody would for that matter. But Daryl…

Rick worked his mouth, thoughtfully. “Yeah, well, I’m sure he was just doin’ his job.”

After all, this was how it was. This was how it’d _be_ until rules were set, bounds were placed. People fought back, it’s what they did, it’s what they _had_ to do when they had something to protect. Particularly with the way the world was now. Limited, and leaving the days near impossible to walk into others’ territory, mess with their stuff, their things, their family, and not expect a repercussion. But Rick doubted the Governor ever knew what it meant to defend.

 _Take by force._ That was the man’s motto, and fair or not, Rick was beginning to think two could play at that game.

“So you gonna tell me why I’m here, or am I gonna have’ta guess?”

It was a simple question, Rick figured, maybe a little too straightforward. But he was being blunt on purpose, thinking he’d give the Governor a chance to explain himself, perhaps even a chance to brag about his feat. ‘Cause Rick could tell the man was tempted. The depraved shine within the Governor’s stare said it all, a shine of desire and self-image that Rick knew to burn deep, endless – a psycho’s corrupt version of divide and conquer, no doubt. Only, it looked like temptation meant nothing if the mystery was snuffed too soon, and to Rick’s surprise even with the pull there the Governor didn’t put out.

Instead, the man leaned back as far as he could on the stool, returned his hand to his lap and haughtily poised his chin. “Guess.”

Rick roved his tongue across the blunts of his teeth. He should’ve seen this one coming. He should’ve known the Governor’d choose the latter, that he’d roll with manipulation, that he got off on control. But to make things worse, Rick didn’t know where to start. Hell, he still couldn’t even remember anything about the events that’d happened before waking in this damn place, and like his thoughts his lips soon fell apart. They hung there, speechless. Better yet, confused, and Rick slowly found himself looking around for an answer.

The state of the room didn’t tell him much though, and eventually his gaze bounced to the floor when coming up empty. But Rick knew he could remember. The memories were there, they were _there_. He could feel them hovering somewhere in the back of his mind, all he needed was a jump start – one word. One, _right_ word to send them all flooding back—

_“Mind still a little fuzzy?”_

Rick looked up to find that the Governor had risen. He was hovering dangerously close now, two feet away at most, and Rick unconsciously shrunk back on the gurney. The man looked like a caged lion, big hands that soon slipped into his pockets and a hungry eye in place of his mouth. An eye that wouldn’t stray from Rick. Wherever the Governor started pacing it stuck like glue, even when the man sighed.

“Alright, Rick. Since I’m feelin’ generous, lemme give ya a hint.” The Governor sounded bored, but he let his words hang as long as he could before the suspense was too much, before it blew its own fuse, and after a minute he positioned his mouth carefully. “ _Boom_.”

Rick stiffened. That’s right, the prison.


	2. A Brick Wall

_Rick was upstairs on the prison’s walkway._

_There were voices and laughter carrying from the cafeteria below. Everybody was happy, dishes were clattering, drinks were being passed. It’d been a good haul the week prior, no deaths, plentiful runs. They were celebrating. Rick could see the graves from beyond the window where he stood. The outline of the forest too, which was casting wraithlike figures across the lifeless courtyard._

_Winter had come, and it was slowing everything down. Movement, the harvest, even the dead. It was so quiet, maybe even peaceful… until an unexpected scream rang through the air._ _Who was it? Maggie? Beth? Judith was crying. Were they under attack?_ _Must’ve been._ _Rick’s people. His family… God, how did this happen? One minute everything was so perfect, and then… and then there was running and shouting – and walkers._

 _How’d they get in? Rick’d remembered making his way through the cellblocks that morning, double-checking the security, reinforcing the stability of the gates. He’d even – no. It didn’t matter… None of that mattered now_. _Rick just knew that when the chaos unfolded he didn’t hesitate and his feet missed anything that’d reel him off course. ‘Specially the stairs, which passed in a blur, and by the time he finally made it rock bottom he was yelling._

_“How the hell’d this happen!”_

_But no one could account for the terror. Most just stood there, faces pale, and heads shaking. So Rick set out for the entrance hall, momentarily stalled by Hershel, who blocked his path with a crutch._

_“What’s goin’ on?”_

_Hershel’s voice was levelheaded. It always was, but Rick didn’t think there was time for senseless poise. In this day and age it’d only get them killed, or at least that’s what he thought, which was where they bumped heads more than once – including now, and Rick pushed past with haste._

_“Not now, Hershel.”_

_The old man had to understand the urgency they were facing. For all Rick knew this attack could be their last. Causalities high, stakes pressed, and he believed he was in the right of mind when making the bench his next target, the one loaded with protection gear and artillery. They’d prepped it for occasions like this, and Rick swiftly rummaged through the equipment, trying to cope with all the confusion, trying to find himself a decent weapon. But nature was persistent._

_“Rick, you gotta give me somethin’ to tell the others. Are we under attack?”_

_“That’s what I’m about to find out.” Rick picked up a machine gun, inspecting the grip like he hadn’t held one in ages, before reloading the clip in a hard whack. He knew Hershel wanted more. They all did. But Rick was at wit’s end and Hershel, of all people, had to know where he was coming from – that this wasn’t a brush-off either, just the truth. “I want you to keep everybody in C-block until I know what we’re up against.”_

_It wasn’t exactly what they’d discussed doing in the past, but under these last-minute circumstances Rick thought it was the safest plan to go with, so it had to make due. And once Daryl and Glenn joined him, they agreed. In situations like this what Rick said went, even if he was no longer leader, and as they exited through the main doors their formation was tight – almost rehearsed as Daryl and Glenn took a different route. Which was for the best, Rick figured, just in case things got heated and he needed to be covered from another angle, from up high, and after he made it outside he kept to his own._

_Rick was down the steps and across the courtyard before his eyes even settled against the fierce glow of the setting sun. But it was more by rush than choice. This prison was his home, after all, his family’s home, and there were people here that were counting on him. People he needed to protect – and vice versa, as Rick realized when some approaching walkers were sniped by arrows._

_In bodies of two or three the dead fell, collapsing against the cement likes wads of potatoes, and Rick stopped long enough to show Daryl his appreciation through a nod before being given a silent motion to continue. Only, just as Rick neared the first gate, his strides long and precise at his speed, his instincts quickly switched from defender to survivalist when one of the guard towers above exploded._

_Thankfully though, the destruction was minimal. But that didn’t stop Rick from covering his head and breaking from his run as shrapnel and debris clotted the ground around. He couldn’t risk getting cut, not when the aftermath was more shocking than the initial blast, particularity since it was a sight he’d seen before – the damage – which should’ve been his cue, a warning, but in that moment he was too damn blind to put the pieces together._

_“Rick! You OK? Daryl… I can’t see him!”_

_Through his haze, Rick could single out Glenn’s voice. It was faint and hardly audible through the ring in his ears, a constant loop he tried to shake from his senses through a stumble and cough. But it wasn’t that easy. Rick’s head was still pounding by the time he finally managed to look up, witnessing the last of the rubble settling, but not the dust. It stayed eye-level and thick – a little too thick for an explosion, and Rick wiped at his brow in worry. It almost looked to be like some sort of smokescreen and he was just about to call out too, tell the others they weren’t alone. But when he turned…_

Rick’s jaw tensed in a swallow. The nagging bump behind his left ear filled in the rest of his memory and he adjusted his posture on the gurney.

“How’d you do it?” Rick’s gaze wasn’t on the Governor anymore, but it slowly found its way back, and when it did he saw the man in a relaxed lean against the farthest wall wearing a stare meant to nurture the silence between them. A look that the Governor soon replaced with a sulk, and Rick guessed the real question the man wanted was something a little more telling. “ _Why’d_ you do it?”

And just like that the Governor wiped the mope clean from his face, showing just how impulsive he really was. The grin didn’t help much either, ‘specially when it looked like nothing but strain, and all Rick could really do was wait while the Governor pushed himself off the wall with something close to a chuckle.

“Well… After my last attack I, uh, realized that there’re other ways to scare rabbits from their hole. Just had to flush ‘em out.” The Governor nodded to himself as he paced, like he agreed with his own comparison, his insult, which was more than enough to blaze Rick’s temper. But it seemed that’s why the man chose it. “You and your group… made me look weak, y’see. I had a responsibility to uphold and I failed. People’re beginnin’ to talk.”

Rick frowned and took a long, deep breath, hoping it was enough to pit the fire kindling in his veins. More noticeably the ones on his forehead, the ones that’d peak and give away his mood without even having him lash out or raise his voice. But not this time, not when the bullshit he was hearing wasn’t something new. It was still the past’s problem, not his. Only, Rick was ready to make it personal, as once a leader and part of reason, and he shifted forward to hover on the gurney’s edge.

“Yeah, well it’s what they do when they’re scared. And they should be.” Rick knew his words weren’t careful, that there was something there that could be taken as a blow. But there was no stopping the spite whisking his tone. Hell, he didn’t even try to hide it, not when his grounds seemed solid enough. “ _You_ attacked us, _you_ were hostile first. _You_ gave us no choice!”

“Could’a surrendered. Save me the trouble.”

“And you could’a retreated. You had Woodbury— _have_ Woodbury. We…” Rick lowered his voice and held his eyes elsewhere, against the back wall, as if to take some of the sting out of his mood. ‘Cause this subject was tender, probably even taboo because of all the bloodshed, of not seeing as equals. But since Rick’d already started, he figured he’d better finish strong. “We have the prison.”

“And I want what you got. How much clearer am I gonna have’ta be?” The Governor shrugged, deftly, like he’d just listened to the reply and not the emotion behind it, and then blinked as if he was trying to look sympathetic. “I don’t wanna hurt you, Rick—”

“Says the man who had the gall to snipe his own when they ran for their lives.” Before Rick knew it he was sliding himself off the gurney, wretched, fuming, and ignoring the pull of the cuffs. “Your people _knew_ they didn’t stand a chance, yet you sent them in blind. They _followed_ you— _trusted_ you, and you stabbed them in the back!” That was how it went and Rick wasn’t about to let the man forget that. “The prison’s their new home, and you’ve got no right to take it from them.”

He could’ve easily added something else to the end of that, but didn’t. All he wanted was to give the Governor something to think about. ‘Cause if the man still felt like he had a responsibility to his people, no matter which roof they were under now, Rick wanted to address that. He wanted to clarify that, make that clear to any humanity left in the empty shell walking back his way. But when Rick saw the Governor make a face, nothing quite as definite as shock, he figured they were way past obligation.

“I think you’ve misjudged the situation.” The Governor said, low and direct, and if he was anywhere close to fuming too he did a fine job at concealing it. His only expression was his brow, which wrinkled just above his eye-patch before sidetracking to Rick’s wrist. “May I?”

The Governor removed his belt and gun, setting it on the side table as if to take away temptation, and Rick swore silently as he was forced to watch in anticipation as the man drew closer, in two steps, igniting many possible outcomes to buzz through his head. The main one being let go, and pretty soon Rick was holding his breath… up until the moment his cuffs were taken in hand and clicked tighter with a firm squeeze.

“We’re at war, Rick.” The Governor hummed, almost like a tune. “Time to realize you’ve lost.”

Rick grunted as he felt the metal pinch his skin on the last rung, then shot the Governor a glare meant to kill. The anger from before was rippling under his skin again, and the Governor might not’ve expected a retaliation, given the situation, but he had one coming. He had one coming for a _long_ time. And Rick knew he was going to regret what he was about to do, but nothing could stop his bull from seeing red.

“Guess I’ve got nothin’ else to lose then…”

If realization was there Rick didn’t wait to see it, not when the Governor’s neck was his for the taking, and after he secured his grip he knocked his head into the man’s with his own. In that instant the Governor bent, clean as a cut. It was a reaction almost too good to be true, and before the man could straighten out Rick tried for a choke next. But with only one arm it was hard, sloppy, and took too much time. ‘Specially with the cuffs, and what’d he get to show for it?

An elbow to the ribs.

The attack left Rick doubled, breathless, and he had no choice but to withdraw. With a stagger back, he reached one hand out for the gurney’s rail, except just as he did his vision blanched with spots and he missed. His fingers barely brushed the bar and he had to use his other hand to stud himself fast on one knee, where he was only hunched long enough to wheeze before the Governor’s fist landed his jaw. It was a punch that hit Rick unexpectedly, whirling him a complete one-eighty and with a wet grunt his face met the sheets in a daze. Then groan, as he felt the taste of rust swarm his mouth like angry bees and his arm twist unnaturally beneath his weight and the cuffs.

It was a hurt that had Rick tame on the spot and he spat into the gurney’s sheets, stained them with blood, as he imagined the look the Governor was probably wearing on his face right now. Rick couldn’t turn to see him, but the man sounded riled. It was the huff that gave it away, not the slander. Although it did help put things in perspective.

“You’re absolutely right, Rick.” The Governor sucked through his teeth after an unruly chuckle. “There’s nothing left for you but _pain_.” At the word, he whipped out a boot and drove it into the back of Rick’s legs, crumbling him lower than a kneel, dismissively, before snorting. “I think we’re done here.”

 _Done_ as in the small talk, and when the Governor turned towards the door Rick gnashed out something that sounded like hate. But the man didn’t pay it any mind. Instead, he evened his steps and called to somebody outside the room. Some lackey. How the Governor even still had those was beyond Rick and he drawled a wounded grunt in place of his opinion as he tried to correct himself. Except his footing was still everywhere, arm twisted like his ankles, and by the time he rolled into a sit on the floor a third party was already in the room.

It was a face Rick didn’t recognize. Though at this point he wasn’t really trusting his eyes. He’d looked through so many people during his past meet with the Governor that it was getting harder to discern identity nowadays. But Rick was beginning to think he’d of remembered this guy, this flabby man with the insecure gait. He looked like somebody who could easily pass the bookworm stereotype – the physique, the glasses – and from what Rick could tell saying the man had no militia background either wouldn’t be a stretch…

Not with that attention span, the way the man’s focus kept straying away from the Governor’s gun on the table as if it’d go off any second. He was nervous about something. It was in his hands, the manner in which they handled and set the metal tray he’d brought with him on one of the other tables in the room, and although Rick couldn’t see what was on it when he watched the Governor admire this… whoever he was, it was pretty clear it wasn’t something he was going to like.

“This the Cavalry?” Rick spoke out against the silence. He wasn’t prying yet, but it was obvious he wanted an answer, _needed_ an answer, needed to know what to expect. But when he didn’t get one, the only movement the Governor’s tongue, which protruded just enough to touch at the gash on his lower lip – a perfect depiction of injured pride – Rick tried again on the new face in the room. “ _You_ the Cavalry?”

“Milton Mamet.” The man’s introduction came in a short glance as he preoccupied himself with his dish of instruments. “It’s Rick, right? We’ve met before. I mean we didn’t actually meet face-to-face, but I was, uh, there when you and Philip first discussed your differences and… issues of property and space.” He paused, but only long enough to swallow noticeably, as if he knew his next words were going to sound awkward before passing Rick another fleeting look. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

There was even a small smile that time, an expression that didn’t lack the sincerity Rick was so used to these days. But as quickly as it ghosted Milton’s lips it was gone when the Governor grunted something that rumbled like a warning. It was the same tone a bully’d use to oppress a classmate, and after another pronounced swallow Milton passively dropped his attention back to his tray. Except Rick couldn’t feel all that sorry for him.

Sure. Good people still existed. If Rick ever wanted proof of that, this was it. But he was beginning to believe the real reason for their survival wasn’t because of compassion or that they were weaker, but because they knew when to keep their mouths shut. ‘Specially in groups. Groups did things to people, in some cases changed them for the worst, created a _system_. Leaders, followers, fighters, runners… Even good cop, bad cop, which was all he let himself see this as.

“This it then, hm?” Rick lowered his head and studied between the two. “You gonna torture me? For what? To prove a _point_? ‘Cause the way I see it world’s a big place, plenty of people out there willin’ to fight for what we got— willin’ to kill for it… You won’t be the last and neither will we!”

“Uh, no. We’re not going to—”

“Rick, Rick!” The Governor bellowed, cutting Milton off with a laugh. “You’ve got it all wrong! I’m not a vindictive kinda person.” He made his way back to the door, signaling to another groupie outside before closing it. “Merciful on the other hand… Now that comes with the territory.” In a quick gesture he snapped his fingers at Milton, who obediently took out a small notebook and pen. “I’m gonna give you the privilege of bein’ the first to bear witness to the birth of a New Age.”

Rick felt his eyes jump, but he couldn’t bring himself to blink. “The hell you mean by that?”

‘Cause if the Governor had his understanding before, it was gone now, and frankly, none of that shit the man just said made a lick of sense. Though if it could, if it _could_ make sense, the Governor wasn’t the one to give closure as Rick witnessed when the madman simply smiled and directed the question to his associate. But Milton was so engrossed in jotting something down that he didn’t realize he was being summoned to take the floor until the room grew an eerie still, which was when he finally looked up from writing.

“Oh.” Milton deadpanned. “He means a cure.”


	3. The Facts Of Life

“Well, not _exactly_ a cure.” Milton corrected. “Hasn’t been tested yet. I told Philip we should wait a week, maybe two, but…”

Milton looked down again and placed a few scribbles into his notebook, like a clever thought’d just hit him and he had to script it before it escaped. But after a few seconds he was back. Not all his focus, though. A part of him still seemed to be stuck between the pages, as if what he’d just recorded had a hold on his soul, and it left him trailing.

“Uh, how old are you? I want to be as accurate as I can. It’s important, for the data.”

It was like listening to a different man, somebody looking at the positive response for the sake of research, not the morality behind it. The abstraction. ‘Cause that was all it really sounded like to Rick, something vague. Although he was already working a few numbers in his head, working Milton’s fascination with fact, working his own capture. But most of all, working what he’d just heard.

“A cure for _what_?” Rick grit, despising every bit of how his mouth had to open a little wider to even get his question out.

But Milton didn’t seem to notice. The man looked like he was more focused on _what_ was asked, not _how_ it was asked. Except just as Milton made the motion to talk, only getting as far as a stutter, he stopped. It was almost like in that second he was snapped with the compulsion not to answer and just stood there with his pen as if it was his sole task – to hold it, and Rick’s snout twitched.

Compared to the Governor, it seemed like this Milton guy was a whole ‘nother force to be reckoned with. He wasn’t on a ride for violence, if anything it had to be for the knowledge, for the chance to write history. It made sense to Rick if he put it that way. With what he’d seen so far, Milton’s mind was his strength, his tolerance, not his fists. But that didn’t mean it was a good thing. All it looked to be doing was keeping him docile, under the Governor’s wing of influence, making him out to be a pet of sorts. A trained bird, one that knew when and where to sing… Like right now.

Milton’s eyes had made their way back to the Governor again, who was leisurely pampering his busted lip once more, and Rick tilted his head at a dangerous angle, more so after the look that followed. The humor. It was there, tickling the corners of the Governor’s lips and Rick was so engrossed by the stare that he didn’t even read into the man’s next move until it was already in motion.

Through a blink, the Governor was striking in a yawning grab. His hands were out like nets and by the time Rick took a step back his jacket was caught. Then his shirt, which was soon fisted and twirled high enough to lift him off his feet and wind him down onto the gurney with a forceful thrust.

Rick’s back landed the sheets first and his shock escaped his throat with something close to a gasp, something fleeting, but once it was replaced by a growl he was pushing against the Governor’s hold and straining to tear his fingers into the man’s neck.

But the Governor’s grip didn’t let up. The struggle merely fixed it tighter, to the point that the man had enough momentum to catch Rick’s uncuffed wrist, and warp it to the side in one, sharp motion, straining the muscle with a threaten to break.

Rick nearly saw spots. “Get off’a me!” He bucked.

But his demand wasn’t heard. It was smothered beneath a boisterous chuckle and a two-hundred pound pig, the Governor, whose full weight was bearing down on him now, and it wasn’t until Rick saw Milton side his journal and ballpoint to pick up a syringe and a bottle of god-knows-what that he knew things were coming to a head. More specifically – going south.

“The hell’s in that!”

It didn’t even sound like a question with the way Rick shouted, but he wasn’t there to fish. Not when he wasn’t really good at it. One fault being his patience, the other his doubt of getting a fair bite. But in a sea of only two, he knew it was simply a matter of time before somebody took the bait. In this case, the Governor… although it looked like his answer was more of a tongue in cheek.

“Sugar and spice.” The Governor hooted as he finished his hold over Rick and turned to his associate in an affable manner. “Right, Milton?”

“It’s a…” Rick watched helplessly as Milton glanced over at his notebook on the table and scanned a few lines with his eyes before clearing his throat. Though what came after didn’t sound all that unrehearsed. “It’s a concoction of enhanced opsonin and genetically altered mast cells that neutralize the pyrogen bacterium attacking the immune system. Because I’m sure you’re aware that it’s the pyrexia that kills us—” He motioned to his forehead briefly. “The fever. Not the bite itself.”

In turn, Milton’s voice sped with his excitement.

“Although through some personal study, I’ve come to learn that the virus rapidly replicates our genomes with infected RNA, which later affects the synthesis of proteins in our bodies. So, in order to prevent the hypothalamus from overheating…” He slighted the bottle and needle in-hand. “I believe that with this treatment I can trick the molecular sensors within our systems, and reverse the thermoregulatory process.”

There was a bit of a recess as Milton let himself catch his breath. It wasn’t any longer than a pause, but in that time his face took on more of a solemn expression. Something that almost made him look like an unhappy child who knew his new-found toy was destined for the trash before he licked his lips.

“But of course, as I said before, this is all just speculation. We won’t know for certain until it’s tested on a live specimen…” Milton pointed at Rick, hesitantly. “ _You_ , in this case.”

“And there you have it.” The Governor beamed down at Rick like he couldn’t have said it any better himself. “ _Sugar and spice_.” And Rick’s ears burned when thinking that the man could’ve.

 _Playing God._ That would’ve summed it. Better yet, that’s what Rick was hearing, that’s what he was seeing here – a reenactment of a classic tale about stupid men trying to surpass their limits of knowledge and tamper with the unknown, with the hand they’d been dealt. Divine curiosity. It was something that screamed for trouble and left nothing but ruin in its wake. In the past, in careers, in _lives_ … and Rick didn’t want to add his to the list.

“No… No! You can’t do this!” Rick jerked like mad, squirming with all his might as a wave of adrenaline took him, allowing him enough energy to ignore the cuffs and the grip on his other hand and flop up. First bumping the Governor’s chest with his, then twisting his hips as if to try and get a knee between them. But none of it was putting him any closer to free, and Rick was still at the Governor’s mercy by the time Milton finished readying the needle, which was what really set him off. “I’ve got a family— You… You’ve got a family!”

“Not anymore.”

“Please, they wouldn’t want you doin’ this— think of Penny!”

As much as Rick tried not to preach, it happened. No sooner than his mouth jarred he was talking as a father _to a father_ , all the while praying that the Governor still remembered what it meant to be one, remembered what it meant to be a family man. Somebody compassionate. Rick knew he was asking for trouble, but when the Governor looked down at him with dull brows and a lip that wanted to curl, a lip that wanted to bend like metal under a blowtorch, he decided it was worth it. Moreover, it was a start. Meant he struck a nerve, meant he had _time_.

But not much.

Not when the Governor looked like he was going over loose ends in his head, when it looked like he was already figuring out it was _Michonne_ who told Rick about his daughter, which she did. She’d told him, all right. Told him how the grand Philip Blake kept his little girl locked away, how the man was feeding her stuff and _things_ from his staged fights and homicidal excursions – how he was feeding a _walker_.

Rick couldn’t find any justification in his heart for something like that. But it did have him wondering if this so-called _Governor_ would still be the same, sick bastard everybody knew today if his daughter’d just survived. If she’d _lived_. It might’ve changed him, might’ve yet kept him sane, and Rick was hoping to channel whatever was left of that sanity even now. Her name still had to have meaning, it still had to make the Governor _feel_ something. And Rick almost thought himself as right… until the man spoke up.

“I am.” The Governor said, letting the two words tumbled from his mouth in the deepest drawl Rick’d ever heard.

It was a dark sound, circling something there in his throat like a shark. Pose was the closest Rick could place it, from experience. But as quick as it’d come, it left. Just like the subject, which was dismissed, in the blink of an eye and the snap of a finger. Gone. It seemed the Governor wouldn’t have it, wouldn’t _heed_ the plea, still thinking himself doing right, doing all he could for the greater good or something far more twisted. And knowing that – that he was falling on deaf ears – had Rick craning his neck to Milton instead.

“You got one?” Rick’s voice wasn’t anywhere close to being calmer. The same went for the wild look in his eyes, which Milton had a hard time meeting, like he didn’t know why he was being addressed in the first place. But Rick didn’t give a damn about Milton’s sensitivity, and repeated himself again. Almost in a hiss. “I said, _you got one!_ ”

 _A family._ Rick was hoping Milton did, praying he did all the same. The man _had_ to have a family. He _wanted_ him to have a family. To know what it was like to lose somebody. To know what it was like to want to survive for the sake of a loved one, but—

“No.” Milton said, mildly, as he lifted the needle to flick out some air. “No one.”

In a loose nod, Rick slowly dropped his head back onto the sheets, like all his grit’d just been sucked from his bones. Christ, this was a nightmare. Trust his luck for thinking things would be different, that they’d go his way, when in truth they never did. And by now Rick sincerely believed that God had abandoned him. Why? Maybe he’d have a chance to ask him later, but now wasn’t the time to reflect on faith.

He was alone in this.

_“Philip, you have to hold him steady…”_

But being alone didn’t mean he was lost. Rick knew where he had to go, where he wanted to return. Knew what it meant to feel, ethics not a stranger to him yet. But more importantly… he knew who he wanted to _kill_.

Rick eyed the Governor. The man hadn’t moved from above him. He was still there, hovering, grip all vice-like and mass just as heavy. But his face was different. It no longer had that glum expression, it was something more plastic, a smile, making him look as if he’d just won the lottery or some silly bet. To the Governor this probably was too, some kind of gamble. But it was more like a risk to Rick… This _cure_. ‘Cause he knew he was still on the Governor’s agenda, in the sights of a two-bit vendetta. The situation proved it, the needle proved it. All it was was a slower means to the man’s true intentions, and the word meant nothing to Rick but _guinea pig_.

But to what extent? That’s what Rick really wanted to know. To what extent was the Governor going to take his wrath? His revenge? To what _end_? Until he went and scooped up somebody else from the prison? Maggie and Glenn again, Beth?

Rick withered in cold sweat. He didn’t want that to happen. Hell, he _couldn’t_ let that happen. Even if he was no longer leader or the one left making group decisions, Rick still felt like he shouldered that responsibility. Maybe it was his duty as an officer-of-the-law kicking in, Rick didn’t know. He just figured this was something he had to do, _convinced_ himself this was something he had to do, to take one for the team. After all, they were family and he’d die for them.

Rick knew they’d do the same.

So he kept his mouth shut when his jacket was sided, when his shirt was bunched above his navel and the alleged _cure_ was injected into his stomach as if he was some damn dog with rabies. Milton was gentle, but Rick still felt like he was being poked at with a thousand pins as the liquid steadily left the tube and into his skin. It was slow process, and Rick squirmed, then huffed, mostly to tell himself to relax, to calm his irritation. Though when it did little to help, he fluttered his eyes shut next, as if to escape. But as soon as Milton withdrew the needle and the Governor released his hold, Rick split them open and shot up.

Except it was too fast a move.

Rick nearly bowled over before his soles touched the floor. Everything was white, the room dipping and swaying uncontrollably around him, and Rick tumbled to the side, only to be saved from falling by the snap of the cuffs. They held him there, on two legs and at the most acute angle, hugging at his wrist and stretching the metal to the extreme. Rick heard the links strain, but it was a soft noise when compared to the sound pounding in his ears. His heartbeat, which was nigh on racing, blood strong – like the off and on rapping at the door of the room. Like somebody was there, knocking, _prying_ to be let in… just like Milton was prying now.

_“How do you feel?”_

Truthfully, Rick didn’t know how to answer that. Fine, good, bad. Right now it was all the same to him, really. But he wasn’t going to tell Milton that, not when the man was acting like this whole thing was something as casual as taking blood. ‘Cause it wasn’t, and as the effects of the drug began to even out Rick cleared his throat. This was the extent of his cooperation, any more and he’d almost want to call himself lame. A _pushover_ , and just the thought of the word had Rick straight in an instant and standing with nothing but questions.

“What happens now? You let me go? Hope for the best?” Rick looked at the Governor first.

After all, he was the one in charge of this whole operation, the head honcho calling the shots. But Rick wasn’t only asking. He was _telling_. He wanted this to be it, to be _over_ , and he needed to be sure the man caught wind of his impatience. And the Governor caught it, all right, like a tree in the breeze. Though his reaction was slow at first, nothing said for a whole minute, and Rick thought he’d have to ask again, until the Governor’s features lightened.

“Why not?” The Governor shrugged, shoulders nearly touching his ears before he slipped his good hand into his pocket, smiling when seeing Rick flinch at the abrupt movement. But this was only his _pocket_. Belt was still on the table, and the Governor fished around a minute even though his seams weren’t that deep, only tight, and after a forged _ah_ he finally pulled out a key.

Rick’s key – the key to the _cuffs_ , and in a toss the Governor threw it onto the gurney’s bedding like a bone to a dog, where Rick picked it up slowly.

 _Slowly_ , ‘cause his eyes were elsewhere when he reached. They were stuck and watching the Governor like the man was a spider on the wall – like he’d secretly jump when all defenses were down, and the suspense of not knowing if he was kept Rick on edge. Enough so, that he just stood there rubbing the key between his fingers, thinking they’d tell him whether to use the pin or not, tell him this wasn’t too good to be true, that he was actually…

“You’re _free_ to go.”

Rick drooped his lips at the Governor’s persistence, like he was suspicious, which he was – more than before. But he didn’t let himself dwell on it too much. This was his chance, and after a small bounce to his wrist he slipped the key into the lock with such precision it reflected his time as a cop, his years of practice. Rick’d had a few of those. But uncuffing himself was a first, and after his left wrist was finally free he kneaded it gently around the joint.

His skin was mostly swollen there, bruised and looking like friction burn, and Rick flexed it awkwardly. It was also tight, _tense_ , just like the room. The air was suffocating, hovering just shy of silence. The only sound was the ruffle of the Governor’s sleeve when he motioned at the door a second time, and Rick shifted in place with his own point.

“I can just…”

The Governor nodded. “Sure can.”

Rick sneered something bitter and felt his forehead furrow alongside his mouth as he moved it a bit, as if savoring the words. “And you won’t…” He made another notion, like he wanted the Governor to finish his sentence. _Stop me_ , but all he got was a head shake.

“Nope.”

Rick mulled again. This didn’t seem right – _none_ of it seemed right. But he was beginning to think there was nothing else he could do besides take the bid. ‘Cause if he left now, he’d be able to make it as far as the road, then woods, and after that there wasn’t much ground to cover until the prison. Assuming the Governor actually stuck to his word, that is… which was highly unlikely, let alone dodgy.

But Rick was ready to put some distance behind him, and headed for the door with thoughts of doing just that. Watchfully though, and without letting his eyes stray from the Governor, he took a step forward. Then five more after he passed the man, who didn’t move, only kept his smile. But not Milton. He beat Rick to the door like a bellboy, and the subtly of his movement had Rick foolishly patting his thigh as if he was reaching to draw his Colt Python.

Except all his fingers brushed was his belt, his holster. It was empty, but Rick wasn’t ready to think it as stolen. Not when he knew he never had it to begin with. It was still back at the prison, tucked away in the toolbox next to the pig pen, so all he really had to give Milton was a stare as the man tightened his grip around the handle of the door, like he was waiting for something… or someone.

_“Oh, one more thing, Rick—”_

Rick stalled mid-stride, but he didn’t turn. Frankly, he didn’t see the point. ‘Cause he was done with this place, this _Governor_ , this _cure_ , everything – and wasn’t reluctant to show his eagerness to leave by jerking his chin at Milton, signaling the man to open the damn door already or get the hell out of his way.

But Milton managed to hold his ground, giving the Governor just enough time to finish what he’d left hanging in the air.

_“ —You gotta get bit for this to work.”_


	4. A Bark Worse Than Bite

_Never get distracted._ That was something Rick’d told Carl over and over again. _We know better,_ he’d said, _thangs like this’ll get you killed._

Yet here he was – blindly giving into curiosity. Blindly ignoring his gut, which was telling him to keep walking, to not look back, to high-tail it out of there. But Rick just had to check. He had to _check_ if the Governor was pulling his leg and it pained him more than he’d have liked when spinning around. Better yet, tweaked him the same way he’d react to somebody talking smack behind his back and leaving him not knowing exactly how to take it.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” The Governor said through a grin, and Rick didn’t want to think he did, but it looked like he had. The madman was actually shooting from the hip on this one, and suddenly Rick felt as stiff as a board.

“And you just expect me to stand around all day, waitin’ for a walker to come up and get some?”

“Well, that’s kinda the point of this, Rick.” The Governor laughed all jolly-like, and Rick’s expression hardened into something uptight, something scrawled. ‘Specially when he also saw Milton grinning. Though his looked more forged than sincere this time, like he didn’t necessarily agree with where the situation was headed, and that was when Rick narrowed his eyes.

“Not happenin’.” He rolled his head on his shoulders in a lazy shrug, as if to get some of the kink out of his neck.

 _Not for a long while_ , he tried to assure. ‘Cause he’d like to see them try and drag him out back and throw him into the ring. With control of both his hands now, Rick wasn’t about to be taken lightly. If he was a handful before, he was a wild card now, and he didn’t even care to read into anything other than that when he turned to leave again.

“Suit yourself.” The Governor called out as he nodded to Milton to finally open the door.

But the strange thing was, just as Milton did he tucked himself behind it like he needed the cover, and Rick didn’t know what was happening until it was too late… until he already had one foot outside and a walker in his face – a damn _walker_. Its arms were stretching out for him, grabbing for his face like it was meat dangling on a hook and fear drove him back into the room, _back_ to where he started.

It was four to a rally and Rick was the main attraction. Stumbling there, shoving, and struggling for his life. None of it was very pretty, but that’s what survival was nowadays. Ugly. ‘Specially when Rick lost his balance, and everything warped as the walker flanked his fall like a shadow. How it got outside the door was beyond Rick, but from what he could tell it wasn’t a stray. One of the biters from the Governor’s fighting arena?

No. Rick heard the snapping jaw before noticing the mouth during their wrestle on the floor. This walker still had its teeth, a whole row of daggers still intact, top and bottom, and as it chomped there was that all-too-familiar stench of decay. It was a smell Rick would never get used to and he curled his nose in revulsion as he kicked the walker off in a hurry. One, solid heel to the chest did the trick, but Rick gave it two just to be sure, and in a snarl the corpse sailed into a side table. Except it didn’t fall like Rick wanted.

The walker just stood there a minute, tottering like it had sacks strung on its arms before it formed itself upright. With a hunch it was aware again and roamed its sunken eyes back to Rick with hunger – a hunger he’d seen many times over, and he took that as his cue. In a scamper Rick was up, adrenaline misplacing his footing, legs weighted with fright as he made for some distance, all the while seething a finger at the Governor.

“You set me up— You put that damn thang there!” Rick yelled, and he might’ve sought to say more, felt like he _should_ say more, but that was the only thought he had on his mind, which he had no doubt wasn’t far from the truth, seeing as there was no such thing as a well-planned coincidence… and it seemed like the Governor agreed.

“No need to thank me.”

Every muscle went rigid in Rick’s body at the reply, not just his fists or his jaw, and in that moment he wanted to strangle the man, to string him up real good and tight with the laces of his own shoes. But just as Rick made the motion to lunge forward, the walker cut him off. It swayed in front of him like it was tranced before turning its gaze the Governor’s way, as if it was leashed by the man’s voice, and after a couple steps it was close, so close to sinking its teeth into the Governor’s arm that Rick almost found himself holding his breath. He could practically imagine the walker tripping forward, wishing it would so that this’d all be over, that this battle’d end.

Except just as quick as the Governor was with his tongue, there was that boot again.

It struck out real fast in a bunt, and without much effort spun the walker away, spun the threat back in Rick’s direction. The whirl was seamless, like something just catching the wind, and the walker didn’t even seem to notice. It just tumbled and snarled like it had a single target all along, and the Governor laughed again as he gifted the room one of his famous ear-to-ear grins before opening his arms like he was on a stage and this was his show.

“Come on, Rick!” The Governor whooped. “This guy needs his dance partner!”

The man’s humor was crude and unsettling, and Rick’s upper lip curled in place of his whole face. But he couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else besides the walker. Not when it was within arm’s length and gnawing at the air like it had bubblegum stuck between its gums, like it wanted to just eat and not work its mouth, like it wanted to _bite_ , and Rick’s legs moved two times faster at the thought.

With every step the dead took, Rick took three more – up until the moment his back was flush against the gurney he was strapped to earlier. There was no more room left to run, and Rick snarled, thinking he was going to have to find some other way around it. But when his heel bunted one of the stretcher’s wheels, he decided maybe he didn’t have to. After all, no matter how intimidating the undead were they were still slow. Better yet, they were still _dumb…_ and Rick was going to use that.

And by the time the walker finally leapt forward Rick was already swinging his body over the gurney like he was jumping a hurdle. It only took one try, and once on the other side there was only about two-feet of space to move. But it was just enough of a blockade to stop the corpse from nabbing anything it could sink its teeth into, and Rick was thankful. Except he wasn’t done, and when the arms came reaching again he was looking for the stretcher’s brakes.

Without much effort, Rick found them. There, locked next to his right boot, and after try three of slamming them with his heel they gave. In a jump, the gurney was free in a short roll to the side, and Rick didn’t waste any time turning the whole thing a half circle away before swiping it into the wall – walker n’ all.

A loud crunch emphasized the impact. It was a wet noise, alongside the flailing arms and pinioned torso. But just because it was fixed didn’t mean it was down. Rick knew better, and when the walker started floundering some more, its fingers nearly brushing his nose, he drew the gurney back and swiped it again. Then again, returning the push harder than before… the fourth time with his foot.

Though even as Rick saw the walker’s top half nearly tear in two with a sickening rip, he didn’t quell his wrath. Caution wouldn’t let him stop, and redemption wasn’t too far behind. Rick wanted to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere. Anywhere near him, at least, and even after he began witnessing most of the bones crunching into a bloody slush, clumping on the floor like mud after a flashflood, he didn’t end his striking. He’d give it all his rage, he figured. His frenzy. And he would’ve too. If not for—

“No, no!” With ease, the Governor looped his arms around Rick’s chest from behind in a sort of chokehold, like his role was as simple as breaking up two kids fighting at a party. “I need ‘im _alive_ , Rick!”

Rick growled as he was pulled away from the gurney like a pawn. The control the Governor had over him was nauseating, and in spite Rick threw out a kick, managing one, final punt to the gurney before it was too far gone. Although it did him no different. He was in the lion’s mouth. The Governor’s grip was taut, solid despite his wounded hand, and Rick made a jab for the man’s patched eye next, attempting to weaken him with a thumb, a finger, _anything_ to cause a falter.

But the Governor leaned back just enough out of reach, and pretty soon Rick found himself falling further and further into submission. A submission he wanted to avoid – at all costs. And once Rick remembered why this fight’d started and where it was going, he dug his nails into the fingers moving around his neck like there was no tomorrow. But the Governor simply bounced him deeper into the hold, which had Rick’s huffs growing more and more violent than his twisting and thrashing, to the point he swore he was going to swallow his own tongue.

He almost did, too. ‘Specially after he threw a head-butt over his shoulder, back and right into the Governor’s blind spot. It was a barely managed hit, but whatever of their heads’d knocked had Rick seeing stars. The same went for the Governor, and through their haze Rick had just enough time to mess the hold around his neck – which was when he decided to thrust himself backwards and use his weight as the finishing blow.

It was a spur of the moment decision, and fortunately the Governor couldn’t move fast enough to stop them both from going down. In a grunt they toppled, ungracefully and unprepared, but after that they were only beached for a second. Although a second was all Rick needed to roll himself from the Governor’s body. In one rotation, Rick was on his knees, but he wasn’t alone. He met the Governor face-to-face, nose-to-nose, and once their eyes locked together they both rose like they were waterlogged.

The sight was something else, one swimming with so much anger words wouldn’t even stay afloat, and out of his own Rick sunk his fist right into the Governor’s closest cheekbone. It was a poor blow, way off balance and too off the mark to count as a real hit, and all it did was cause the Governor to become more irate than he already was, prompting him to snarl like a disturbed bear before swinging back. Except Rick somehow managed to evade the hit with a duck, feeling the wind whisk his face the last second, and out of reflex he shoved the Governor, almost to the floor, before bolting for the door.

But it looked like Milton’d closed it before he fled, and Rick stalled just long enough to feel the Governor’s fingers graze one of his ankles. It was only a light touch at first, but in less than a second it was a full-on pull and Rick belly-flopped. His palms landed the cement the hardest. They scraped the gravel in place of his chin, shredding most of the skin on them like cheese, and Rick grunted at the sting. He couldn’t afford to wreck his hands like this. He _needed_ them, needed them to fight back, to keep himself _safe_. But it seemed like the damage was already done, and through a hiss Rick rolled onto his back to use his elbows instead, only gaining about one or two feet with a hurried scoot until the Governor struck again.

The man was on Rick sooner than a fly to honey, spanning his hips in a heavy sit, tangling his hair in a fist, and before Rick knew it his neck was bent to the Governor’s will in a thrust to the bolster below. Once. Then twice, each time stronger than before, and Rick was ready to cry out on three but it never came. After two, his head was unexpectedly released, allowed to bob back onto the flooring in a hollow _thud_.

Rick didn’t question why. The only energy he had left was spent on groveling. His temples were throbbing, banging like drums in his ears as he just stared up at the lamp above. It was only one bulb, but it was circling like a flock of vultures in Rick’s eyes. Around and around, and not only was he seeing multiples, but he could hear the Governor lunging the air as hard as he was.

“Nowhere to go, Rick!” The Governor loomed and swooped Rick’s ankles in a tug towards the back end of the room, towards the soiled gurney… towards the _walker_.

Rick could hear that it was still alive, just as he could feel every rut in the cement as he was dragged, every loose piece of gravel and dirt stick to the sweat masking his back as his shirt peeled up enough to expose the flesh of his hips. He was too drowsy to even want to fix it though, his arms weak as they swiveled above his head like string – right up until the very moment the pulling stopped and his legs were dropped without a care.

“Didn’t have’ta go down this way, y’know.” The Governor panted with a quick flick to his bangs, which were now being pulled onto his forehead with sweat. “But it seems you’ve left me no other choice.”

Through tired eyes, Rick saw the Governor make his way back to his discarded belt on the table and pluck at something from the holster. It sounded like a button, and Rick may’ve been forewarned but he sure as hell wasn’t forearmed… not when the Governor was looming again and there was a sudden pain to one of his lower calves. A _sharp_ pain, and Rick couldn’t stop himself from screaming out and writhing against the cement like a worm that’d just had its body torn in two. It was a feeling that had his mind blank, and as the burn soared higher Rick fumbled his fingers lower, down to his leg now bent halfway to meet his touch despite the ache of his muscles, where his breath cut short.

A knife. There was a _knife_ wedged deep within his flesh. Rick felt the handle, but he couldn’t get a hold on it with the way his hands were shaking, which was when the Governor swat them away and withdrew it in a twist himself – in one, cruel motion, and Rick gasped almost sensually when the pain skyrocketed. It shot down his whole limb in waves and burned so hot it felt like ice, and Rick desperately tried to apply adequate pressure to stop the bleeding. But the blood just kept bubbling, trickling through his fingers like water from a kettle filled to the brim, even after he rolled onto his side, and Rick felt a bead of worry trail past his nose and disappear between his dry lips just as the Governor disappeared behind the stretcher.

Rick couldn’t see anything from where he was curled, but he could hear the man sorting through guts and ripped organs like a pirate would sift treasure, and the thought of what the Governor was hoping to find churned Rick’s stomach cold. ‘Specially when he saw the man walk back his way, holding the walker’s torso up high only to lop off the head for safe keeping with a horrible _slop_.

“Let’s try this again.” The chattering of teeth mocked the Governor’s enthusiasm.

Though it was more like the chattering of the _dead_ , with its wild crunching and gulps at air, and in that instant Rick knew that he had to crawl. That he _needed_ to get away, and after he let go of his leg he started with a hefty pull. Then another, all the while ignoring the skin of his elbows being pinched within the sleeves of his jacket and the zipper digging into his hip the longer he dragged himself.

But he only managed about a couple feet before he heard the Governor’s footsteps flaunting the vitality he was slowly being drained of and Rick didn’t want it to end like this. He expected more than this, _wanted_ more, and if he couldn’t do it for himself, he’d do it for his family. For the fleeting hope of seeing them again. Carl, Judith, Daryl…

Oh god, _Daryl_. Rick nearly sobbed, wanting to mumble the man’s name nonstop like it was the last thing he was ever going to get to say. Daryl was like a brother to him, only Rick was lying to himself when he thought that, and he wanted to tell him – to tell Daryl that he was _so much_ more. To thank him for always being there for him, for sticking with him through his moments of absent sanity, for having his back time and time again. For—

A spray of blood spattered the left side of Rick’s face and he choked in a daze, thinking it was his until the bottom jaw of the walker was tossed in his line of sight with a splat. An _emphasized_ splat, as if the Governor was crowing the end – that he still had the other half. Rick didn’t hear the initial cut, but he did hear the knife drop. It wasn’t hard to miss with its rattle against the cement, with its distinct whine, and Rick let a similar sound of his own when he felt the Governor’s boot slip under his chest.

Unable to fight the sway, Rick allowed himself to be rolled onto his back, where he not only met the Governor’s eye but a pair of glazed and hungry ones as well. _Walker eyes_. They were still alive in the skull, still animated and darting curiously as the rest of the head was lowered, as the Governor bounced into a squat and held the top jaw threateningly close in front of Rick’s face.

“This’s the moment of truth, Rick.”

Rick grimaced as one of the Governor’s sticky and soiled hands pulled at his jacket, then under, and he could only watch through passive blinks when his shirt was lifted last. His body was numb, choosing now of all times to go into shock from the blood loss, and Rick quivered as the winter air robbed him of any warmth, leaving him with the feeling it couldn’t get any colder. Only it could – and did – when Rick caught the Governor’s one, good eye lowering to admire his bare skin.

“I hope you’re ready.”

Rick wasn’t. But that didn’t stop the walker’s teeth from entering his flesh, from being _jammed_ into his flesh with the help of the Governor’s hands, and soon after everything fell silent, like a service during a wake. Rick wanted to cry out. He wanted to cry and curse at the world for being cruel, but the only sound that came was something strangled. A choke. It was like his body knew that he needed to save his strength. ‘Cause what started as an itchy sensation at first shortly turned into a full-blown rush of heat, and the hotter it burned the tighter Rick clenched his fists.

He could feel his temperature better against the cool cement beneath him. The warmth of the bite and how it spread from his stomach to his back like a chill and that’s when he felt a real chill run up his spine. The kind he’d expect to joke with somebody about walking over his grave. But this wasn’t a laughing matter, and Rick never thought he’d have to go through something like this. He imagined his downfall more along the lines of a slip-up, not paying attention during a supply run or jumping in to save somebody from the prison… But to be reduced to something so goddamn staged and controlled?

Rick was grieving by the time he glared at the Governor. The man was pacing from a distance now, watching from afar after having discarded the walker’s head in a pitch against the back wall. He looked like he was waiting for something, for this mess to sort itself out – and Rick _was_ a mess. The back of his skull was sweltering from a new bump or two, and he could feel the symptoms of the fever beginning to reach his brain. He was woozy, lightheaded, not to mention tormented by an irregular heartbeat, making him think his chest was going to explode any minute, until time seemed to stop, and before long Rick felt his muscles contract in a light convulsion, a seizure. Nothing too serious to cause a blackout then and there, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt…

Or scare him, for that matter.

After all, Rick didn’t think the symptoms of being bit were supposed to happen this fast. That it nearly took a day or two for the fever to even take hold, and that was all he could think about when his back arched against the cement and teeth compressed in a grind. He knew he was too green to compare the feeling to a heart attack, but that’s what he was reminded of. The shortness of breath, the sporadic pulse. It was all there… and so was the Governor.

The man was attracted in a quick loom, taking both Rick’s shoulders in a firm hold as he tried to shake him out of his fit. But when Rick resisted, still thankfully having that capability, the Governor twisted him to the side, which was when Rick wheezed – a rough and winded wheeze, making him realize he’d been holding his breath.

_“Come on, Rick… Stay with me…”_

Rick’s eyes rolled. The Governor’s voice was so lurid by this point, his words soon falling behind his lips like an old phonograph that’d just run its record. They lagged and slurred at different speeds and tones, one of which sounding oddly soothing, as if the Governor was trying to comfort him – as if he was actually _worried_ about him. But that must’ve been a trick of Rick’s mind because he was sure the madman was just worried about his experiment failing. If that’s what was happening… Rick couldn’t tell. He just knew that through his fades of consciousness the only thing he saw was the Governor scanning him with an expression he’d never seen before. It almost looked passionate… But how could it?

 _“Stay with me, now.”_ The Governor purred, and Rick tried to push away.

They were _enemies_ , the man’d said… the man’d said so himself. So why… Rick curled under the Governor’s stare. _Why_ was he feeling more exposed than threatened? Like he was being stripped of something other than dignity? Like he was… Rick couldn’t wrap his head around the rest of his thought but at the realization he struggled. He _struggled_ with all his might to lift a hand to the Governor’s face, fingers twitching with murderous intent. But it was useless. His drive just wasn’t with him anymore.

It was gone, the darkness coming again, and no matter how many times Rick tried to keep a steady reach, his arm just wilted back to the floor. Even after he tried again and again it wouldn’t stay up, and pretty soon Rick found himself falling victim to a night he wasn’t quite sure he’d wake up from. More specifically, _wanted_ to wake from. In spite of everything…

He may not even be himself when he does.


	5. Wrong Side Of The Tracks

Rick’d always wondered what sorts of things he’d think about when death came for him again.

When being gunned down in front of Shane it was about his family. How they’d take the news, what their reactions were going to be when hearing he’d been shot, that he messed up on the job and was dying for it. It wasn’t Shane’s fault for what happened that day on the roadside. Rick knew it was his own for being careless and he remembered wanting to tell them that, just as he remembered wanting to tell them not to worry about him, that everything’d be all right. But in the end he never got the chance.

‘Cause like then the darkness was swift too, riding over him like a horse with no conscience, stomping his eyes full of black holes. And they _were_ black – the thoughts that came after. They were the dimmest they’d ever been in a long while. Though that didn’t mean Rick wasn’t thinking of survival all the same. He knew his chances were slim to none, that he might’ve lost too much blood, that his body could shut down. But that didn’t stop him from praying he’d once again wake to see their smiling faces.

Lori, Carl. They were what kept him going, the _belief_ that they’d be reunited again… But it was also that same belief that challenged Rick’s faith in the Almighty. Going to church gave him expectations, going to church made him _blind_ , and through that blindness he didn’t find anything but deceit. ‘Cause first time around there were no pearly gates on the other side of the fence, no grass as green as it was made to sound. It was an abyss. Nothing suggesting anything, _anything at all_ about a kingdom of heaven.

And that was when Rick figured death was the end, the finish line of all life and every living thing on Earth. It was imminent. _Death_ was imminent. Rick discerned that when he became a small town cop, a Sherriff’s Deputy. He _still_ knew it even after cities and towns were infested and overrun by the walking dead, which didn’t make it any less hard, any less difficult to _know_ that once it was all over people could return.

Which’s why it had to be the brain, Rick told himself when he heard a low groan escape his own throat, which’s why it had to be done _right_. If done wrong this would happen, this… Was this it? Was he one of those damn _things_ now? _A walker_? Did the Governor just get up and leave him for dead like some sorry hit-and-run victim, thinking the turn was a better punishment than humility? Defeat? Rick hoped not, but his skin crawled at the notion all the same and he could sense his eyes dancing beneath his lids, trying to seek clarity.

_You don’t get to come back from this… Not as yourself._

This was something Rick and his group’d been preaching for as long as they could remember, since they started killing their _enemies_ , their friends _._ Their _family_. There was no consciousness after death, not anymore, just a hollow core of famine. They’d seen it. Hell, they’d _all_ seen it. Experienced it, several times over. No pain, logic, or recognition, just ambitious curiosity. But were they wrong? Could they’d been _wrong_ about the things walkers did and didn’t do? About what they felt and didn’t _feel_?

Rick didn’t want to be wrong, he _hoped_ they weren’t wrong. Better yet, he _knew_ they weren’t wrong when he awoke with a heaving gasp. The pain was his first clue. It was on top of him the moment his eyes widened at the ceiling. The memories. His body. Mostly his body, which was like his bedside nurse when he tried to turn to his side. It was screaming at him, telling him to take it easy, to slow down and not push things – to be _grateful_. And right then he was.

Pain meant he wasn’t dead. _Turned_. Not yet, at least. Rick could see that now because he was still _here_ , sweating like it was summer, all bent out of shape and crumpled like a Dixie-cup next to the stretcher that’d once acted as his captor… held him there in place of his _real_ _captor_.

Rick’s teeth bared at the mere thought of the Governor, only the man himself wasn’t there to see it. He was gone, the room empty. Rick was alone, and once that realization sunk in he gave up his desperate roll to the side and flattened his back onto the cement in a huff. Then murmur, when he was reminded of his leg injury. It was still great with hurt, with its wild throbs and icy ache, and Rick knew it’d stay like that for a good while. After all, there was nothing time wasn’t known for besides slow mending.

But as for how long he had left? The answer to that question was the same to how long he was out. A couple hours? Half a day? Rick didn’t know, but it had to be since it was now night – judging how dark everything was, and that dread had him instinctively checking his _other_ wound. ‘Cause he wanted to give himself the benefit of the doubt. He wanted to tell himself he’d gone into shock after the initial stab to his calf, to tell himself that he’d _imagined_ it. ‘Specially since delusion wasn’t far past him. But when his fingers moved down to his belly and his touch met a wet slop atop his shirt, Rick couldn’t hold back a sharp sob.

It was there. The bite was still _there_ and Rick fought the urge to tuck his chin and look at it. Looking would buckle him, he figured, keep him spellbound like a mirror. And Rick didn’t want that, not when it wouldn’t change what’d already happened, not when it’d just grind whatever he had left into dust. His _control_. Rick’s was already on the verge of slipping when his gaze traced the ceiling, when he tried to _swallow_ the flood of emotions swelling his chest like a balloon.

That went for his mind too. ‘Cause knowing didn’t help either, knowing that he needed to keep it together, that he _had_ to keep it together – that he couldn’t break down _here_ ,in the heat of things. ‘Specially if he was milking something borrowed. Time, and Rick’s eyes fluttered shut as he droned a dwindled tune. This was a home truth, something he had to consider now. The end. His last breath, and Rick’s face felt hot, clammy, unlike his throat, which was scratchy and dry as he reached for his mouth to suppress any chokes that were trying to escape.

But some managed to slip through his fingers, and after a moment or two Rick found himself giving into the grief, abandoned on another sob and anything that came after… until a sudden _bang_ forced his head to tilt back towards the doorway. Rick could just see it from where he was, all ajar like somebody’d just left in a hurry or was just careless, and the fear of being heard had him fighting to be quiet.

Rick shallowed his breathing and tightened his hand over his mouth. Against the draft rolling in, his panting was hot within his palm, baking his skin alongside his fever. He could feel it stronger now against the cool, nighttime air, which was much more bitter than earlier, so bitter that meat could probably be left out without worry of spoil. But in some ways it felt good against his face, his eyes, and seemed to dry most of his tears by the time he squinted.

That bang. It hadn’t been that loud, more like a whisper in the wind when Rick thought back to it. Except that didn’t stop him from staring… and he stared hard. Furthermore _listened_ _,_ like his life depended on it, straining his ears and seeking what he could, catching the outside noises first. Then the crickets, but after a minute the bang happened again and Rick flinched in a startle. It sounded louder this time, closer too, and when another came he suddenly _knew_ what he was hearing.

Gunfire.

It was the murmur of _gunfire_ , and soon Rick snorted through his nose from a keenness too sharp for his own good. Something was going on outside and he was determined to find out _what_. ‘Specially when he began picking up on the shouts of men mixing with the ruckus, like oil and water. There were some that sounded surprised, others agitated, Rick just couldn’t make out about what, not when the gargling of the dead filtered into the midst – a handful of walkers, which were passing by the door of his room in twos or threes now.

It looked like they were part of a breach, and even though Rick only saw very little from where he was laying on his back, their silhouettes skewed across the ceiling was enough motivation to get him to move. ‘Cause the way Rick saw it, being bit was one thing, but being ripped apart was another. And he was terrified of the thought, terrified he’d be _seen_ _,_ and the overwhelming instinct to survive influenced his reaction.

In a roll, Rick struggled left onto his stomach, feeling the dried blood around his stab wound resisting again. But this time he didn’t stop and rotated his legs some more, forcing his injury to flex with his jeans in a thirsty rip, a tear that left his mouth hanging and a strand of spit slipping from it before he hummed his pain into the floor.

Though it was only for minute. If he’d lingered any longer he might’ve actually _stayed_ put, and once his head was up again Rick was quickly looking for cover, something to hide beside or under. He went with _beside_ because of his size, the lank of his legs and the limitation of height, which led him straight back to the gurney after another roll, where he managed to stay well-hidden. Not comfortable, though. But Rick forced himself to keep low with a curved lip. ‘Specially when he could see more clearly… and that one walker had stopped.

It was there, visibly standing outside the doorway and sniffing curiously at the air like it was catching the scent of blood, and when it finally entered Rick felt benumbed. Even the impulse to blink was gone when it scuffed into the middle of the room, and soon everything got hot. A tense hot, like it was only a matter of time hot, a _foreboding_ hot, and when coupled with Rick’s fever it only turned excruciating. It had his hair damp with sweat and spiraling with natural curls against his forehead in mere seconds, sagging it right into his eyes, stinging them with salt.

The shake of his arms didn’t help, either. They rattled him good, all the way up his shoulders as they tried to keep his stomach from rubbing the ground, which in turn collected a few beads of perspiration on his brow, sliding one to the tip of his nose where he let it suspend – where he let it _hang_ as long as he could before he couldn’t take it anymore.

Rick flexed his snout in a twitch, sending the droplet to the floor about the same time there was a sudden _thud_ down the hall. It didn’t sound like much besides that, but it was enough of something to grab the walker’s attention, and Rick only allowed himself to follow with his eyes as he watched it take off out of the room to investigate.

Another one of the dead must’ve knocked into something, he reckoned. After all, that’s how it went in today’s world – rap on wood, draw a crowd. He’d used the distraction more than often in the past. On runs, when searching houses. When done right it was deliverance, when done wrong it was damnation… Though there were also times when it was deceptive, and Rick found himself waiting in the wings for a good five minutes just in case the walker decided to double back.

But when it didn’t after six, Rick tenderly pushed himself to his knees, releasing a gruff hiss once making it to a stand. Except a hunch was more like what he’d call it. His legs just wouldn’t go straight, making him out to be as awkward as a cow on a crutch, all clumsy with ache and heat. Though Rick wasn’t ready to let that stop him.

Through a shrink, he set out anyways, favoring his leg like a hurt dog as he did. It felt like the wound had opened again, was _bleeding_ again, and Rick growled through pressed teeth. This was just what he needed, a trail of breadcrumbs spelling _fresh meat_ , attracting every goddamn walker within the area. Attracting _attention_. Rick flexed one hand at the thought. He didn’t have anything to protect himself with if it came to that and in response his gears went turning, body whirling as he hobbled around the room, looking for something he could use as a weapon.

Sharp, as long as it was that Rick wasn’t about to be picky. Or be thrown for a loop, for that matter. But everything just looked so different with the shadows of night. So foreign. Closer, nearer, farther, farthest. Rick felt as blind as a bat when his fingers stretched outwards, away into the air, into the black of the room, and after a step he didn’t feel the side table until it was already toppling – until it was already crashing to the cement in a metallic rumble.

But it wasn’t alone…

With one, big, staggered gasp Rick fell with it, back onto the floor. Again. Legs twisted, lungs empty, and head ringing. It’d hit first, his right temple, which brought back that same whistling pitch he’d heard earlier when waking up to this hell. Except this time it sang high, leaving him there all disorientated like a patient trying to make sense of things. But even in his state, he was lucid enough to know that the crash was loud, so loud that he figured the passing walkers from before had noticed it by now. ‘Cause he’d established they were dumb… not _deaf_.

And they were coming back.

Rick could hear them, their excited gurgles hollowing from outside the door reinforcing his conviction, and he didn’t even bother presuming how many there were. He was spent, mentally and physically, and slowly but surely the buzzing in his ears overtook his senses in minor blackouts no matter how hard he tried to stay focused. It even went as far as drowning out the approaching dead, suppressing their footsteps with each beat of his heart. They were slowing and so was Rick. Slowing his thoughts, his sanity, his will to fight… until it was quiet.

Almost _too_ quiet. Still as death, which was what Rick was before he felt a pair of hands crawling over his body. They traveled down to his wounded leg first, tugging at it, twisting it to the side, and the suspense was there unlike Rick’s breath. It was stuck in his throat as he just waited for another bite to finish him off, for nails to rip his skin from his bones like he was a chicken drum – to _tear_ him open.

But when the hands returned chest level and seemed more preoccupied with his shirt, lifting it in an inspection, Rick’s resolve went tumbling. ‘Specially after he felt a strong, leathered arm clasp under one of his shoulders next and pull up with such force that he cried out in more alarm than anything. After all, walkers didn’t carry their prey.

“Leggo’a me—” Rick rasped in sightless confusion, weakly, before his second wind kicked in and his movements spiked to ruthless, which he let out with the sharpest shove he could muster. “Leggo’a me!”

But he didn’t get far. In less than two seconds the hands struck once more, this time with a quick pacify to his wrists in a shake. It was a calming gesture, but Rick didn’t want to give in – he _wouldn’t_ give in. Not when his muscles were now screaming to fight, and with whatever strength he’d found, Rick kept pushing away, his mind swearing that the Governor’d come back to finish what he’d started, to finish the job.

But a throaty, _“Rick! Easy! ‘Ey—easy!”_ gainsaid his guess, shortly followed with an ever thicker, _“I gotcha!”_ when his panicked grunts persisted in rejection, before a set of fingers then moved to embrace the back of his head in a final shake. _“Said I gotcha!”_

Which was when it suddenly clicked for Rick.

He… he knew that voice. Knew it well, and the recognition nearly swept him off his feet. The same went for the familiar scent that was beginning to fill his senses, the one of crisp leaves and stale cigarettes. It whisked his nose like a breeze of fresh air, filled his lungs with excitement and soon eased into natural perspiration. Then a hot breath huffing and puffing with his, and Rick’s heart bobbed up into his gullet as his lids fluttered open in groggy anticipation, where they met an unforgettable chin.

“…Daryl?”

The man’s name rolled off Rick’s tongue like a sigh, one, single breath and he almost thought he was dreaming, having done it in blips of mindlessness before. But it wasn’t until his eyes were studied in short flicks with a flashlight that Rick knew Daryl was real. That he was _here_ – with him, and Rick wanted to say something, to say so much, but no words came. Instead, he relapsed with a drawback.

“My leg—” Rick curved, desperately trying to get a hold of his calf bone, like an animal trying to lick its wound. Except Daryl was there to bring him back.

“Leave it be!” Daryl growled in a jerk and Rick grunted, soon to have the man’s flashlight shoved into his chest in a silent gesture of _hold this_ , _focus on this_. Daryl was shrewd like that, also quick, and although Rick knew it to be a distraction he played into it, letting Daryl loop an arm around his waist again and hurriedly pull him from the room.

Once out the door though, time passed at a snail’s pace for Rick. He could remember looking back at where he’d been kept, only to find it wasn’t a room at all. More like a refurbished storage unit, all the doors done in and replaced with the standard kind, not roll-ups. It was an area Rick hadn’t seen before during his first break into Woodbury, all fronted by a stretch of cement that just seemed to go on and on, somewhere at the back of town. They’d probably only walked on it for two minutes, but it felt like forever.

The same went for the gravel after that, the lane of misshaped rocks that sent any stability Rick’d managed to scrounge for a whirl. They rolled the soles of his boots, tripped him up and slumped him lower than Daryl’s height. About chest level, and every step after only messed his footing more, to the point that Daryl took it upon himself to shoulder all of Rick’s weight for the rest of the trek.

Rick didn’t ask him to. The man just did it on a whim, bounced him higher for a better grip, braced him closer so that they were hip to hip, and ignored the fact that Rick already had one inch on him. It was something Daryl was more prone to nowadays. Acting first, sizing later. An impulse Rick almost wanted to think the man’d picked up from him, just as he wanted to think Daryl knew where he was going.

Rick wasn’t going to question if the man did, though. He knew better than to break Daryl’s concentration when tracking, which was what it looked like he was doing now. Retracing his steps. Rick could just spot the look through what little light was coming from the moon, and he tried his hardest to be of some help, holding Daryl’s flashlight out and down in front of their path to light. But all the beam did was vault with their steps, spike over the tree lines as they left the path, stunt itself on the cement once they made it into Woodbury, and glint off the faces of walkers aligning some alleys like gators.

Although once on Main Street, Rick had the right of mind to click it off, to keep the attention minimal, before Daryl dragged them both into a house. In through the back and straight through a living room that’d already been cleared of the dead, leaving them sidestepping headless bodies and others with the remnants of bolts as they made their way to the front door. By the looks of things Daryl’d been busy, but Rick assumed maybe not without a little help.

“Where…” Rick tried not to sound so sore when he spoke up. “Where’re the others?”

“Michonne went north’a town, Glenn stayed south. Said we’d meet at the car.” Daryl bounced Rick against him, carefully, before he nodded like he could see where he was motioning. “Ain’t that far, just down the road. We can cut through the woods.”

“And the Governor?”

“Dunno. Was gone when I got ‘ere. Don’ care neither. Just know that when I find that sonuvabitch he’ll wish he were dead.”

At that, Daryl retrieved a stray arrow from the wallpaper aligning the hall with a rough jerk, like he was imagining it was somebody’s neck. Rick already had a good idea of who, but left the name behind with the rut Daryl’s arrow had splintered in the wall once they moved to face the front door. It was closed, unlike the back, which Daryl’d managed to wedge open with his foot. They needed two hands for this one, and after Daryl flushed his back to the frame, Rick didn’t wait for the man to ask him to turn the knob. He did it by force of habit, ‘cause words were never really their thing, and once the door was unbolted Daryl did the rest, bunting it wider with his hip.

Only, outside wasn’t any better than the alley they’d just come. It was far worse, with a lot more flaming barrels and ten times more walkers, and Rick felt Daryl tense against him when half of the dead drew to their location in a slow turn. Most of them were still a few yards away, but it was the sound of their gnashing teeth that had Rick stock-still with fear, the memories. Remembrance had him rigid, and it didn’t help either when Daryl tried to play the hero and single-handedly get a firmer grip on his crossbow.

All it did was further the bad taste in Rick’s mouth, further his notion of seeing himself as a milestone, his knowing that a couple bolts wouldn’t even put a dent in the numbers, that Daryl’s quiver’d be empty before they even made it five feet onto the street… That he was _holding them both back_. It was a thought that racked Rick’s psyche deeper than realization itself. He couldn’t let Daryl do all this for him, to risk his life for a dead man, and before long Rick was digging his heels into the cement with whatever might he had left, almost in a stall.

‘Cause he knew his two spontaneous words of, “Leave me.” wouldn’t be strong enough to get the man to listen… and he was right.

“The hell I won’t!” Daryl barked, real quick as he slung his crossbow over his shoulder, like he knew it’d be said again if he didn’t cut in.

Man had a habit of reading minds like that. Only Rick’s, though. It came with how close they were. Some people’d say brothers, but Rick’d always wanted further… just as he wanted Daryl to stop with the pulling and bounces. It felt like the man was trying to jar him from his thoughts, not just adjust his grip. But Rick wasn’t done with beseeching, even if it was in a tone that echoed nothing of his time as leader or of the composure he’d worked so hard to build up over the past year.

“No, no— you don’t understand! …been bit, Daryl. I’ve been _bit_!”


	6. A Battle Of Wills

When Rick opened his mouth he wasn’t thinking about how much weight his words carried.

He just wanted them said. He wanted them to be _just enough_ to get Daryl to stop trying so hard for the both of them, not for them to turn into a silent debate. ‘Specially not while still in the midst of danger. But that was what it looked like Rick was getting when Daryl’s shoulders sagged real deep under his arm and the man’s face lit with something close to puzzlement.

Rick would say puzzlement, but really, under the streetlights it was hard to tell what was what. The only sense of materiality he had was the grip Daryl had going around his waist, how the man’s fingers buried themselves into the fabric of his jacket in a hold and dragged him forward like a mule. At first, saying nothing, which was when Rick figured maybe he could’ve said what he did differently. Something a little more _subtle_?

If subtlety wasn’t outdated then Rick might’ve considered it. But not right then, not when he knew he was living in a day and age that held very little regard for fine-spun tales and that using anything less than truth to address his demise would only do as much good as sweetening poison with honey. ‘Cause Daryl’d find out, from the spike in his fever or the bite on his stomach, it’d only be a matter of time and Rick didn’t want to waste any of what he had left sugar-coating lies, not when it was a hardship that couldn’t be put into words alone.

They’d already tried pity in the past, during times when it wasn’t them but somebody else. When it wasn’t somebody close… When it wasn’t _family_. That was the custom back then. If it wasn’t personal, blessings were counted and condolences passed. But if it was, people either steered clear or gave support.

Daryl was decent at both and by no means had a problem with neither before, but as they continued their escape it seemed like he just might. Rick could tell by the way the man moved, still shoring up to lend him a shoulder but also having this aura swearing to drop him where they were treading the cement. The staying silent bit was just extra, Daryl’s adept technique of avoiding confrontation, which made it even more trying for Rick to focus any other voice than his own for the last two blocks of town.

“…been bit. I’ve been…”

“Shuddup!” Daryl bunted Rick hard with his hip, like he was finally getting fed up listening to the mantra. “No, you ain’t!”

“…bit—“

“Stop sayin’ that!”

Daryl’d never yelled at Rick before in all his life. They’d had quarrels in the past, sure, ones that involved occasional raised voices and a few grit teeth. But nothing as forceful as this. Though it wasn’t really the volume that had Rick so speechless, it was the implication. The audible denial, which sent a shot of something tangible straight into his heart.

Daryl… He didn’t believe him. Here Rick was giving the man his word yet it was being treated like heresy. Why? What was so hard to accept? That it _happened_?

With little luck, Rick hung his head to rein in the tears stinging his eyes. He couldn’t find the strength to make them stop, ‘specially when he could feel every shake in Daryl’s shoulders with the same tension he could hear starting to spike between their breaths. His crying and Daryl’s huffs, which were more hushed, more mad, and made the man sound like a child who didn’t know how to be sad.

Daryl was guarded like that, careful when to show emotion or keep it hidden. From day one ‘til the prison Rick’d never seen the man cry once. It was always just the aftermath. The dried snot on the backs of his hands from wiping at his nose, the streaks under his eyes or whatever wasn’t cloaked by his hair. The anger. That was always the most telling, how Daryl’d distance himself from others so he could go off to grieve on his own.

A sob broke from Rick’s throat. What they were going through now, together, was going to be a first for them both… _and a last_. Rick couldn’t think to put it any other way. It was set in stone, his gravestone, something his torrid fever reminded he’d never get. Maybe a cross, at best. The thought made Rick cringe, but he knew he had to start thinking like that.

He and Daryl, they both did. ‘Cause really, what other choice did they have? What could either of them do? Hope for a miracle?

They’d already seen what happened when foolishly trying to prolong the inevitable. It just depended on who took aim first. Daryl knew this. Hell, they _both_ knew this, but even so the man didn’t let up. He just kept on pushing Rick when he’d stop, pulling him when he couldn’t keep up, and shoving him overtop Woodbury’s jerry-built wall when they couldn’t get through the bummed gate.

But Rick was already on his last legs before he took the jump on the farside, the drop a long one, and he was still groveling by the time Daryl’s crossbow followed, then the man himself. Rick didn’t see the initial start of how Daryl came over, only the last bit when the man nearly lurched over him, inches from stepping on his feet. Rick didn’t move, though. It was Daryl who threw himself to the side in the nick of time, collapsing about an arm’s length away in a flop onto his back, panting.

Rick was panting too. Although his breaths weren’t as loud, more breathy than expressive. Daryl’s were sharper, fixed somewhere between pure exhaustion and complaining groans. But regardless of the flux, Rick heard every breath, wishing he couldn’t. Then scrapping the thought for a split second and wishing he could, but more as a feel on his skin than as a visible husk through the air. It was wasted out there, he thought, in the winter, night sky, someplace they were both staring up at like stargazers. But it wasn’t something so simple.

Danger was still around every corner, they were just avoiding the inferno within Woodbury, was all. The flames, but not the heat, and Rick whined at the strength it held, as for the fever wracking his brain.

What was he doing? He needed to think things through. He needed to—

 _“Get up.”_ There was a stirring tap to his shoulder. _“Gotta go.”_

Rick turned away from the touch, but responded accordingly. Though it was more like reluctantly when he picked up on Daryl’s tone, which almost sounded ignorant, like the man was _oblivious_ to what he was told earlier. Or trying to be, in the least. Either had Rick in a trance and in the course of it he pulled through his body’s ache and rose into something of a stand, where he kept one hand on a knee and placed the other flat on his stomach, enough to feel the linger of the bite beneath his shirt and turn his stance rigid.

Going on like this… it wasn’t right, Rick told himself. It was neurotic. He was being suckered by emotion, not practicality. If he had any sensibility left, he’d be thinking ahead. He’d be focusing on what returning home could mean, the pain he’d cause to those there and how it’d endanger what he’d built all for the sake of a weak goodbye, which was something he didn’t want and that pragmatism shattered Rick like glass.

‘Cause what if he turned at the prison, _in_ the prison – what _then_? Hell, it should’ve been obvious the second he was bit that he was just another ticking time bomb. That he was continuously on the decline, and Rick couldn’t live with himself knowing he’d hurt somebody in his family, bite somebody in his group. No, he couldn’t do that. ‘Specially not to Daryl, who he could see brushing his knees off in front of him. Rick didn’t want to hurt him, he’d rather die than…

Rick’s breath slowed when he spotted Daryl’s hunting knife. It was there, hanging just in reach on the right side of Daryl’s loose-fitting jeans, and Rick found himself lost in a stare. Something magnetic, something he didn’t quite know the intentions to until he was reaching out, until his fingertips brushed the blade’s handle – until it was firmly within his grasp and Daryl was coiling like a startled snake, twisting so fast that Rick nearly jumped two steps back. But even then he didn’t lose his nerve. Because this was the only way, he decided, it was now or never.

“Daryl, please!” Rick tottered the knife just out of Daryl’s wide swing, holding his other palm up and out in a gesture they both knew as _don’t come any closer_.

“Sonuvabitch!” Daryl glowered at the lost opportunity and instantly switched his priority to throwing a pass to his crossbow, like he was looking to peg Rick with a bolt. But since it wasn’t on his shoulder and still on the ground he settled for the drop of his hand. “Don’chu dare do nothin’ stupid!”

From where Rick was standing he didn’t see the idea of suicide as something senseless. Before today he might’ve, but with the way the situation was now he thought it as befitting. He’d never tell Daryl that though, and repressed the urge to say anything than what needed to be. ‘Specially after seeing that spark of something in Daryl’s eyes just then… Desperation, maybe?

The loss of light outside Woodbury made the look difficult to read, evenly grueling to _ignore,_ and for a minute Rick didn’t think he could. But after he worked his tongue over the lump in his throat some of the doubt left with his swallow.

“Carl…” Rick let his son’s name slip first, which only seemed fair. After all, he needed to think about his boy now. Carl couldn’t see him like this – see his dad _turn_. Rick couldn’t let him go through with killing him like he did his mom.

_Lori… Oh god, Lori._

Rick looked to the ground as he tried to start again with a clearer head. “Carl an… and Judith. Promise me you’ll take care of them.” The knife’s handle squeaked almost threateningly against his skin as he tightened his grip, finding the pain of his bloated knuckles more bearable than silence, which was all he was getting. “ _Promise_ _me_ , Daryl!”

Rick wanted to hear the man say it. No. He _needed_ to hear him to say it, to put his mind at ease, to reassure him that he wouldn’t be orphaning his children after death. ‘Cause if they had what he thought they did, this _companionship_ that they never got to explore further, despite knowing it was too much to be asking Rick was sure Daryl’d give him the clarity.

The man’s eyes told him a different story, though.

They told Rick that he was selfish with the way they bounced to his lips, that he was as mad as a March hare when they flickered up to meet his after that. Rick could see that much only because Daryl’s bangs allowed it. They weren’t long enough to hang in the line of his glare with the style he kept them in, swept to the side. The corners of his brows were all that were fringed by hair, leaving a little room to make out the knotting of his forehead, a patch of skin that never really seemed to roll the way Rick’s did.

It always stayed at one plane. Flat, unlike like the bridge of Daryl’s nose. How that lip of skin creased was the most defining feature on the man’s face. It gave him that wolfish appearance. The stance too, how he kept his shoulders turned at just an angle to show he wasn’t feeling safe, how he centered his weight on the farthest foot like he wanted to run from the conversation… or just run from Rick. It was a look that illustrated Daryl’s anxious side, his insecurities, and his lack for learning how to process them properly had him skipping reason and going straight for aggression.

“This’s crazy, man! We ain’t even havin’ this talk!” With a sharp turn, Daryl paced a little, walking only about three-feet away before stomping back with an expression completely taken by fury, none of that fret from earlier. “What’d the Governor give you, huh? You’re as high as a fuckin’ kite! Ain’t thinkin’ straight neither! I checked you earlier, didn’t see no damn bite on ya! So you best stop with the bull!”

 _No bite?_ The words didn’t take to Rick and he started shaking his head before he even knew what he wanted to disagree with. The fact that Daryl was so set on being right or the fact that Daryl was challenging his sanity. Both had Rick in a standstill, to some extent unaware that the fever was more than responsible for his inability to think clearly. It’d buried itself so deep inside his mind that it seemed like that was all that was there – heat and what he knew he’d seen, what he knew he’d _felt_ – and Rick’s whole body shuddered when thinking there was no way he was making any of this up.

“No… It was dark— you… you were rushed.” Rick rambled, mindlessly. “I don’t _blame_ you, Daryl.”

He never would. What happened to him… it wasn’t Daryl’s fault. Surely the man had to know that. So Rick let him vent, let him get it all off his chest with a few more paces into the ground and some phrases he’d only ever heard during his time as a cop. Something about him being _coked_ , _juiced_ , or _seven sheets to the wind_. All three accusations were colorful, right around hurtful, but Rick didn’t want to deny Daryl the right to say goodbye. No matter how thorny it came… let alone indiscreet.

_“Show it to me.”_

The hair now hanging in Rick’s eyes restricted his sight no higher than his nose by the time he made out Daryl tramping towards him. But it wasn’t too late to pull back and without delay Rick put a distance of five-feet between them, like he was afraid Daryl was going to rip into his clothes right there and _make_ _him_ before even hearing him out.

“I… I can’t do that.” Rick said, almost in a tired slur, like his mouth forgot how to work. “I _won’t_.”

Now was no different than before. He still wasn’t ready to present his bite like some title, make a _spectacle_ of it, and he put his hand up again as a reminder for Daryl to _stay away_. Only, the man kept coming, forcing Rick to hold it higher and take another step back.

“You best fuckin’ _show_ me right now!” Daryl threw a sharp gesture in Rick’s direction, like he was skipping a rock across a lake. “I ain’t gonna ask again!”

“And what’s that gonna do for you, huh?” Rick garbled before considering the sting of his words. “You think it’s gonna change what’s already been done? Jesus, Daryl… A bite’s a _bite_!”

And there was nothing they could do about it besides accept it. Rick hadn’t entirely yet, but for the sake of holding on to common sense he was prepared to.

“Listen to me. Daryl, _listen to me_! I want you to turn around and go back to the others. Tell them you didn’t find me.” Rick licked his lips in focus of finding a trigger word, something he was hoping to be his final say on the matter. “You _didn’t_ find me.”

Except that blew up in his face like a backfiring engine, and Daryl was behind the wheel just revving to go, stuck in place, eyes like slivers and a finger drilled into the side of his own head.

“Ya even listenin’ to yerself right now?” Daryl opted a pause for the word _batshit crazy_. “We gotta go. _NOW!_ Otherwise them damn walkers’re gonna be on us any sec!”

Daryl swiped for Rick’s wrist, any wrist, but Rick withdrew with another limp, leaving the man’s hand barely touching his skin as they just stood there, frozen in place like statues, giving Rick about a minute or two to collect a word. One, simple word as he tried his best not to choke on it.

“ _No_. I told you…” Rick evened his footing and jumped the dagger from where it’d been by his throat, right up to the sensitive dip of his temple. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. My mind’s set.”

But his body wasn’t. Rick hadn’t noticed it before but his hand was shaking uncontrollably, like it was swarming with every doubt in his nerves telling him to think this through. Rick thought he had, and he tightened his grip around the handle for what must’ve been a fourth time. Except when he pressed the tip of the blade deeper above his temporal bone he didn’t even break the skin, which had him giving up in a hiss before trying again. Only, the harder Rick tried the more violently his arm trembled with another squeeze, cringe, then sob. In that order.

And Daryl saw that.

“Christ, Rick! I’m gonna kill ya himself if ya don’t gimme that goddamn knife!”

It wasn’t said with any real bite to it, just as a warning. Daryl’s tongue always had a way of doing that, running ahead of itself when under duress. But even knowing that, that spurs were something of an understood, typical nature of his, still had Daryl looking sheepish. It was in the motion of how he licked his lips soon after. Clockwise, like he was trying to take back his words, a silent reassurance that he _didn’t mean it that way_.

Though it wasn’t like Rick thought he had, and he simply stared at Daryl, involuntarily noticing the different rate at which their chests were rising and falling and how their breaths were smoking and mingling with the bitter, night air. But during that recess it was also when Rick noticed something else, that maybe, just _maybe_ Daryl was onto something…

“No, you’re right.” Rick dipped his chin and thumbed at his brow with the same hand holding the knife, like he wasn’t even worried about poking his eye out, which said a lot about where his head was. “You’re _absolutely_ right…”

When Rick looked back up he saw Daryl’s shoulders stiffen, like the man was readying himself for the worst case scenario, to intervene if Rick took the initiative. But Rick lowered his hand a bit, showing he wasn’t going to. Some other thought had taken his mind, and as if absorbed by it he ignored the pain in his calf and limped himself right up to Daryl, close enough to let the man grab a hold of the knife. A grab was all he got, though. Rick didn’t let Daryl take it from him, only share the handle before he quickly yanked both their hands up and under his jaw. Blade ‘n all.

“ _You_ gotta kill me.”

No sooner than the words were said, Daryl’s back went awful straight and his face twisted into an expression that made him look like he’d just been socked clean in the mouth. Horror, that was one way of describing it. Genuine repulsion of the thought, and Rick wasn’t surprised when he felt some resistance. It started as a pull at first, something hesitant, as if fearful of what jerking the knife would cause. But when Rick firmed his grip, it turned into a jump, sending Daryl’s whole body into a recoil with a spring matching the snap of his bow.

Rick felt his whole arm jolt with the movement and reflex had him moving with it. Forward, only a couple feet, until his footing quit and he stumbled. It was a slip-up Rick wouldn’t have called intentional, but when Daryl froze like one of those beasts he hunted every so often, he didn’t waste the opening. Instead, Rick dug his heels in the ground so it wouldn’t happen again, which was around the same time Daryl began shaking his head. But Rick simply ignored the rejection and held the man steady.

Willingly or not, he needed Daryl to do this for him. Better yet, he _himself_ needed to face the truth – the truth being that he wasn’t going to be able to take his own life. Not in the most reliable way, at least, and that scared Rick more than death.

“Daryl. Daryl, _look_ at me. You gotta do this.” Rick lowered his voice like he was talking to a young boy. But when that got him nowhere, only Daryl’s gaze straying further, Rick raised it and gave the man a hard tug, like he was trying to tame a wild horse at the end of his reins.“Hey! If you love me—“

Carelessness had Rick’s lips tripping on the phrase, and he kicked himself inwardly for letting his confession come out like this. He didn’t plan for it to. It wasn’t _meant_ to, ‘specially under the circumstances. But hell, it was all that was on Rick’s mind. So instead of trying to talk his statement down, he let it stay. He _let it_ , figuring at this point nothing else would be strong enough to get Daryl to listen, and once their eyes finally met, Rick slowed his speech when seeing he wasn’t too wide of the mark.

“I said _if you love me_ … You’ll do this for me.”

In stages, Rick watched dolefully as Daryl’s face took on something of a hurt look. Not a pained hurt, though. It was more like shock, almost like he’d just been betrayed, shot pointblank after being promised the moon, the Earth. Rick could read it all in Daryl’s expression. Even the hate flaring the man’s nostrils, which began to die down the longer Rick stared, up until the moment there was a sluggish dip from Daryl’s chin, meaning only one thing.

He’d broken him.

The dejected droop of Daryl’s eyes next only proved it, and while still being mindful of the situation Rick forced the weakest smile he could offer. It was meant as an apology, but his lips hardly reached halfway up before dropping when realizing Daryl wasn’t looking to accept any kind of amends, which was when Rick decided to curve to hunt for those eyes he knew so well. But when Daryl’s features hardened just as their sight locked, Rick decided to leave it as that. It made things easier, he guessed, and finally let the knife go, permitting Daryl’s hand to withdraw while he kept his where it was. Hovering.

“Daryl, I—”

Daryl twirled his fingers at Rick without even looking at him, motioning for him to turn away, like he was _done_ with him, like he wanted to hear nothing more he had to say. Rick understood the resolve of Daryl’s cold shoulder even in his fevered state, and inwardly talked himself into feeling somewhat indebted, because he too was at a loss for terms they weren’t even good at. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to make an effort, though.

“Thank you.” Rick whispered as he complied with the request and turned around, hoping he didn’t sound as lost as he felt when glancing back over his shoulder with a nod. “Make it quick.” He cleared his nose in a deep snuff, trying to make himself sound more prepared, before returning his head forward and repeating his request into the night air. “Make it quick.”

Rick figured Daryl owed him that much, a painless death, and soon he heard the man make a noise through his mouth like a huff and initiate a short-lived pace to the left then right. It sounded as if he was gathering misplaced courage, traveling back and forth like that, to and fro, and Rick took one last and longing glance at the scenery about, feeling a subtle breeze brush his forehead like a soothing hand before he closed his eyes in a promise that he’d stay calm – _calm_ and perfectly still.

Only, when Rick started to hear Daryl’s footsteps draw closer, panic invaded his chest. It was a fright that had his breath snagged in his throat like a squirrel in a snare, leaving Rick’s ears sensitive to the sound of Daryl’s feet shuffling through the fallen leaves as he approached, upturning pebbles and twigs, and Rick could sense the man’s grip tighten like wet leather, something he didn’t want to think about. He didn’t want to think… He didn’t—

But he _did_.

Rick thought of his son, his daughter, Daryl living with himself after this was done, everybody back at the prison, how far he’d come himself since this all started. Even the pain, which came in a hot rush. A bunt, right at the base of his neck.

After that, time suspended for Rick, leaving him feeling like he’d been separated from his senses all at once, at odds with his legs and left deaf from the intrusive pounding of his ears before his body finally gave and plummeted towards the ground. Except even then it was a trice Rick expected to be quicker – just like how he expected to see his life mentally flash before his eyes like he’d always been versed. But something else was there instead, something that had Rick taken aback all the way until his chest collided with the pavement.

The consciousness to recognize his drop.

As a result, Rick managed to save the whole of his head from cracking against the cement by throwing his hands out. Other than that though, his words were astray, most sputtered, guttural vowels as he tried to rid his mouth of every grain of sand and dirt that managed to drift in during the fall. He felt about as helpless as a fish out of water, gasping and gagging there for clarification of what the hell just happened as he withered onto his back, catching the tail end of Daryl repocketing his knife, which was when Rick realized what he was missing.

Daryl didn’t… He _couldn’t_ …


	7. Water Under The Bridge

Rick felt sold down the river.

He’d put all his trust in Daryl, asked the man to do something for him from the bottom of his heart, only to be _betrayed_. Rick saw it as that through every bout of consciousness he managed after the knockout, which wasn’t much. A few steps of Daryl towing him back to the car here, a few miles the man drove after with the others there.

A good part of it was a blur, but each time Rick woke he was mad, seething through his teeth whatever chance he got. He even went as far as roaring and cussing at Glenn and Michonne from the backseat like they were the ones with their eyes closed, like they were making the wrong choice in bringing him back home with them, to the prison.

Rick couldn’t remember if he told them why in the long run, about his bite. The fever had him drifting in and out a while, so it could’ve slipped once or twice when he was under. He figured that was the case after he regained his senses through another blip of awareness, from a darkness that constantly sought him back, and found himself being pulled from the parked car and into the prison’s courtyard, all the while hearing Daryl yapping to Glenn about something about nothing.

 _Nothing_.

It was a word that rekindled all kinds of emotions in Rick’s chest. Doubt, anger, pain. Most he didn’t think his throat could express with the way it was feeling sore. But his pride made him try anyway, all the way into the cellblocks, until he hardly recognized his own voice. Daryl’s too, and in next to no time they were both right up on each other’s toes again and screaming at one another ‘til they were blue in the face.

Rick wouldn’t stop reiterating his situation, what he knew to be truth, and Daryl wouldn’t stop telling him he was wrong. It was a fight that soon captured the whole attention of the prison, one that evenly called for a wide berth when Rick got physical and shoved Daryl, provoking the man to swing a fist back in response.

Fortunately for Rick though, he didn’t really feel the hit that time. Daryl’d missed his nose and pucked him somewhere under his left eye, in a stretch of skin numb from the cold. And while no real damage’d been done, it did leave Rick dazed long enough to be thrown into his cell like a prisoner. An inmate, a fitting thought considering the setting, where he eventually passed himself out.

Except this time when Rick fell unconscious he lost time for a few hours, sometimes hearing voices and sometimes feeling somebody touching him. It didn’t register who until Rick woke up a day later with a subsiding temperature, a clearer mind, and meds in his system. He’d guess meds, because he could feel the dregs of a tablet still dissolving in his throat and savor the aftertaste of it on his swollen tongue.

One of the many side-effects of being force fed, no doubt.

After realizing that, it didn’t take much thought to put two and two together. Rick knew Daryl had the means and Hershel had the practice. It was more than likely they both took some part in his treatment, but what Rick wasn’t sure about was _how_ – how exactly he’d come ‘round. ‘Cause truth be told, he expected to be dead by now, craving the taste of anything or everything, not staring up at the underside of his cot blaspheming the Almighty for having a real sense of humor.

Obvious or not, Rick’d been trying to stay out of the Lord’s way, hoping that’d be enough to grant him a merciful death. Only, it seemed fate had a thing for chewing him up just to spit him back out into chaos, a chaos chock-full of more questions than answers, and Rick was done trying to make sense of things.

He was exhausted, _confused_ , and that confusion was enough to whitewash any other sentiment. ‘Specially since he was here. Home. With nothing wrong with him… _N _othing wrong with him__. From the feel of things on the mend too, which was when Rick figured he should’ve felt something other than morose right then. Happiness that he was alive? Delight that he no longer looked like death warmed over?

If Rick’s mind wasn’t still swimming with the trauma of yesterday, he might’ve allowed himself to use the term _lucky_ to describe what he’d been through. But since it was, by no means was he going to just write what’d been done to him off as good fortune.

His submission to the Governor, the shock of his body… The bite from the walker.

Those memories were still very real to Rick, about as real as the air expanding his lungs every time he took a sharp breath and the ache of his muscles when he shifted stiffly atop his cot. What came after was the hazier part.

More than Rick’d be willing to admit, most of it was just shapes and whispers of the fever when he tried to reflect back. But seeing as he’d had some time to think it over, evenly’d had time to cope, if things weren’t going to get any worse he figured he’d have to apologize to Daryl. He’d have to let the man know he was thankful for what he did, for not listening to him, ‘specially since trust played such a big role between them – and almost as if by happenstance Rick heard the chains to his cell door rattle.

Lifting his head from his pillow and looking past his feet only told him what he already knew, though. That Daryl himself was there to greet him.

And Rick watched a minute as the man finished unlocking the door, kneading his set of keys in-hand with a short glance here n’ there, like he wasn’t sure he should enter or not. Rick sat to that, keeping an arm pressed tightly to his side the whole way, as if he was afraid his guts were going to fall out otherwise, and once his feet landed the floor he stayed put. The rest was up to Daryl.

“Comfortable?”

Rick grunted at the question, not really surprised when it wasn’t much of a starter as he looked around the room to find something more germane to talk about. “You locked me in?” He asked, dryly but also humorously. Only, Daryl didn’t look amused when he finally let himself in, more like tired, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

“You were outta it. Had no choice.” Daryl’s voice turned real grate-like as he double-glanced the welt under Rick’s eye with a hangdog inspection. Chances were he felt guilty about it, but probably not as guilty as Rick did.

“I had it comin’.” Rick knew that now and settled for a nod to show it. “Lost my head yesterday.”

“Ya find it again?”

Rick strained a smile at the floor, then a bit higher, but not directly at Daryl. “Not without a little help.”

At that remark, Daryl made a noise that sounded like a stunted snort. “Please, I ain’t lookin’ for yer gratitude.” He waited for Rick to fully look at him before softening his expression. “S’what we do, remember?”

Rick did. He _did_ remember, didn’t think for a second that he could take it for granted, either. Like Daryl’d reminded, they couldn’t do things without people anymore, and although nothing was particularly funny about recalling that Rick had a small laugh, hearing Daryl snort again, this time like an echo. It was a sound that brought back the youth in both of them and together they enjoyed it for a time, until Daryl seemed to clear his throat.

“Almost forgot…” The rest of Daryl’s sentence was left up in the air, long enough to give the man a decent amount of time to disappear from the room and return with a cup in-hand. “‘Ere.” He held it forward with an awkward grunt as if to cover the intonation he’d been rehearsing that line, and Rick rolled his forehead a little at the offer.

“What is it?”

Daryl withdrew the cup as much as he needed to peer inside before sloshing the liquid around with a vinegary expression. “Elderberry tea.” He extended his arm again, then his body when seeing Rick’d have to lean out to reach it. But when it wasn’t taken even then he shrugged like he didn’t know what else to say about it, which was when Rick shook his head.

“No. No, I can’t afford to drink that. Give it to Hershel—”

_“I told ‘im to give it to you.”_

As if the words were a cue, Daryl stepped to the side just as Hershel appeared in the doorway, giving the old man a moment to push into the room before offering the hot beverage to Rick again with a more persistent gesture.

“So he says.” Daryl acknowledged Hershel over his shoulder with the throw of his head but no turn and shook the cup a little, showing it wasn’t going away now until it was taken – and, feeling put on the spot, Rick accepted the damn thing with a sigh, prompting a wise look from Hershel and a smile.

“Everythin’ alright, Rick? How’re you feelin’?”

“Sore, for one.” Rick admitted, keeping his eyes with the cup as he hung it by the rim between his knees instead of taking a sip like his throat begged. Rather, he simply watched at the steam rising off the fair, ruby liquid, observing a minute how it dampened the crusted blood on his hands and knuckles before awkwardly shaking one out, which finally led him to glancing up and between the two. “Confused… I’d also say confused.”

“I bet.” Hershel said slowly, making the two words sound like more than just that. Rick figured it was the old man’s way of trying to keep the peace, which was something he would’ve valued if it didn’t feel so much like an interrogation. “That’s a nasty wound. How’d ya get it?”

Rick followed Hershel’s nod to the injury on his calf. Looking at it now, it didn’t seem at all like he remembered. But maybe that was because it’d already been dressed. Rick guessed the old man must’ve done it while he was out, cut up along the seams of his pants just high enough to reach the initial stab and allow room to work. Hershel was adept like that, working with what was given. Rick only wished it’d been under different circumstances.

“Reckoned _the Governor_ didn’t want me runnin’ too far.” Rick tilted his head as he put a little cynical emphasis on the title.

“You know why he took ya?”

Before last night Rick thought he did. But now… now he wasn’t so sure, only he figured he’d at least give Hershel something for the time being.

“Same old story.” Rick looked up through a hesitant blink, hoping it didn’t make him seem all that doubtful, but just in case he blinked again, this time harder, enough to make it look like he was thinking. “He wants the prison.” But when that didn’t feel right either, he cleared his throat. “My surrender… _Our_ surrender.”

“Ya tell ‘im he can stick it where the sun don’ shine?” Daryl crossed his arms tightly across his chest, lodging his hands up into his pits. It was a stance that told Rick the man was suddenly feeling self-conscious about something, defensive even. Rick hoped it didn’t have to do with the hint of wit he’d just heard in Daryl’s tone, because honestly, he liked the vagary.

“Yeah… Yeah, you could say that.” Rick nodded, well aware those weren’t the exact words he used, but something close. The raw skin around his left wrist was proof of his effort, and he looked down at it in study, which also sparked a weird thought to run through his head.

What if… What if he’d just _agreed_ to let the Governor have his way with him, to test his cure _,_ would he still be looking so battered and bruised?

The answer to that was a pick and choose, but Rick figured there was no use dwelling on the past now. Not when it was just that, the _past_ , the same place he wanted to leave the conversation. Sadly, Hershel didn’t seem to reach that same conclusion.

“That all?”

Impulsively, Rick pursed his lips into a thin line. He knew Hershel was only trying to find out all the facts. With them, thinking they could use any details learned to make a backup plan, some kind of failsafe if the Governor decided to follow through with a second attack. Rick felt his brow knit at the thought before his head angled above his shoulders, probably making him look like he was hearing whispers.

But he wasn’t. He was just remembering back to the way the Governor looked down at him before he passed out – how that hard stare the man gave possibly read a little more _intimate_ than he’d have liked. It was a haunting image, and Rick almost found himself at a loss for words. Perhaps even choked up about it. ‘Cause honestly, what the _hell_ was he supposed to say about that?

More to the point, he didn’t know _what_ to say, or even what he _saw_ for that matter. _Relief_ that the Governor’d won? It was a stretch, Rick thought, to think like that. ‘Specially when Hershel fell silent with him, letting the quiet hold a while longer before deciding to switch the topic to take some of the tension out of the air.

“Least it wasn’t too deep…” Hershel nodded at Rick’s calf, addressing the injury again. “I cleaned it with whatever solutions we had, but we’re runnin’ a bit low on supplies—”

“ _Thank you_.” Rick cut in, knowing it was too fast to be doing so but also realizing that while the thought’d always been on his mind he hadn’t actually had the chance to properly say it before.

Earlier was too rowdy and any later would only be considered negligence, something Rick didn’t want to impose, not when it meant letting go of who they were. Lest of all who he was, which was why as much as it ruined the mood, whatever good vibes they’d established in the last five minutes, Rick equally had to know…

“What about my bite?”

‘Cause that was the real question that’d been eating him alive since he became lucid. He wasn’t ready to point fingers yet, but from where he was sitting it seemed like they’d been avoiding the subject since the start of the conversation. Purposely avoiding it. Rick didn’t know why, all he really wanted to find out was where they both stood on the matter and how far they could get by with just talking. His throat was hoping the whole way, but his eyes were second guessing that after he saw Hershel glance at Daryl – who then gave the old man a head shake of _leave me outta this_ , leaving Hershel to break-in the news.

“There wasn’t one, Rick. Just a bruise.”

_Wasn’t one._

Those words hit Rick like a brick wall and a quiet, “What?” was all he could muster. Then after a second it became all he could think, ‘cause he was tired of everybody telling him there was no goddamn bite. Waking up _himself_ was still something to be tried, but he also knew what he saw, that he hadn’t just seen things, not like he used to, and as debatable as his frame of mind was these days Rick _also_ knew what he’d felt. Feeling was everything. It was his reality when he couldn’t trust his eyes, and there was no faking the teeth.

 _They had to be wrong._ Rick told himself, and the cup had to come down for this one.

Rick bent at the waist the best he could and set the mug on the floor, rising from the cot next with the same amount of difficulty. Thankfully enough standing was easier, and without wasting any time he mindlessly dug for the hems of his shirt, ignoring the stiffness of his shoulders. After all, they needed to see this – they _all_ did. Rick might’ve not been ready back in Woodbury or when Daryl bluntly asked him on the roadside, but he was now, and his raw hands were no excuse to stop his search.

Even Daryl, who attempted to move in to help him, perhaps catch his wrists like they were a hobby, like in doing so he could stop Rick from hurting himself. Only, Rick didn’t want his aid, trusting Hershel to reach the same conclusion, who lifted a hand to keep Daryl at bay while he settled the score with his undershirt, which didn’t take long. After another tug it was up, and with a deep breath Rick tucked his chin to get a better look at his wound. But that’s when the whole room seemingly fell into a thick hush as he gave his stomach an easy rub from left to right, feeling no abrasions whatsoever.

It was just a bruise, like Hershel’d said.

“No…” Rick felt his jaw hang just short of closing at the discovery and he was pretty sure multiple emotions filtered visibly through his expression just then. Confusion probably being the one that bled the most as Rick worked his palm slowly over his swollen and discolored flesh like it was a smudge he was trying to smear. Except when it wasn’t, he found himself in pure denial. “No.” He said again. “This… this isn’t…”

“Now, Rick, just…” Hershel took a slow breath, like he was signaling Rick to do the same. “Just calm down a minute.”

But how could Rick just _calm down_? His beliefs… his experiences. _Everything_ he’d gone through yesterday was now up for review. When did he lose it? When did he wake up and walk off the deep end? Was it _before_ the Governor – after last night?

Rick was in a room with two other people, yet he still felt alone. They didn’t understand, how could they? Daryl and Hershel… They… They weren’t there. They weren’t _there_ when he got bit, so they wouldn’t have known what’d happened. They wouldn’t have _seen_ what’d happened, and Rick was still wrapped in his memories when he snapped.

“It was here… I’m tellin’ you, it was right _here_!”

Hysteria was back in Rick’s tone when he pointed to his stomach, and honestly he didn’t see how they could establish a calm conversation now. Daryl, he… Rick’s mind went straight for accusations. He must’ve put Hershel up to this in some way. Though that didn’t make any sense _how_ , but Rick was beside himself by this point. He also thought about saying something that he’d more than likely regret later on, but thankfully Hershel interjected.

“I’m not sayin’ there _wasn’t_ a bite, Rick. I’m just sayin’ there isn’t one _now_.”

Plausibly, that was one way of putting it, making it seem less likely Rick was some bumbling fool crying wolf, but if what Hershel said was also supposed to _reassure_ him, it didn’t, and Rick tried pushing his case again, going on with what felt right to him. “But…” He flopped a hand by his side, in search of his empty holster as a sort of routine for distraction. “But I had a fever—”

“And that’s all it was. Your leg was stabbed, possibly infected. You lost a lot’a blood.” Hershel humbled his voice a bit, then quickened it when seeing Rick’s attention starting to drift towards the floor. “Also might’a been exposed to the cold, gotten a chill… I mean, come now.” He laughed a little with a gentle smile through his ole beard. “Who’s to say that wasn’t the case?”

It made sense what Hershel was trying to say, but Rick couldn’t stop his head from disagreeing. It shook there jerkily above his shoulders like he had water in his ears, a clear sign that negation wasn’t too far behind. But after a minute of just dwelling on what Hershel was suggesting had Rick at a loss. He didn’t know how to counter that, didn’t think he had the energy to either, and slowly closed whatever of his mouth he’d opened.

As an alternative, he groped his side in a hard squeeze before lowering his shirt and head in a cower, not wanting them to read the fright in his eyes and mistake it for madness. But Daryl was looking, and shortly scooped the mug of tea off the floor in a reminding offer, like it was some sort of limiter to Rick’s sanity, that he needed to _hold it_ in order to stay calm – which Rick didn’t. But figured he’d take it all the same, along with a wounded sip.

It was lukewarm by now, the tea, but it wasn’t something he minded and enjoyed another mouthful before he saw Daryl motion to his face over the rim of the cup.

“Could’a also been whatever it was you were given.” Daryl bounced his gaze up and down, giving Rick the once over before turning to Hershel with a low voice. “Eyes were the size’a marbles when I found him…”

“Rick, you know what it was the Governor gave ya?”

Rick sloshed the drink in his cup as though it mirrored his thoughts. “Not really. But, he…” He went quiet for a minute, just staring off in space like he went somewhere, in his mind, before taking another swig like it was whiskey, finishing with a hard swallow. “He said…” Rick worked over the sour taste in his mouth, either from the tea, or from re-imagining the Governor’s face, as he shifted the weight between his feet. “The Governor said it was some sorta _cure_.”

“A cure for what?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Rick didn’t think Hershel needed to ask, but threw a vague motion towards his cell door anyways, hoping the old man took the meaning further, to the outside world. Daryl, too. Though when neither of them looked like they were taking the tip, Rick motioned to himself after that. More specifically, to where his bite used to be, which was when he saw Hershel’s eyes go a little wide.

“Son, do you know what this could mean?”

“I do.” Rick hadn’t before, but he was beginning to now. “You think it’s somethang worth discussin’ with the Council? Somethang the others should know? _Need_ to know?” He shrugged like he had a say. “‘Cause I think they should, ‘specially if it’s true.”

“Man, we have no way of knowin’ that.”

“ _Do we_?” Rick raised a brow at Daryl. Nothing too arched, though. It was done in more of an inquisitive sense, like he couldn’t believe why the man’d think what he’d suggested was hard to fathom. To Rick it wasn’t, ‘cause if this was the truth, that he’d been given an authentic cure, then that could also account for why there was no bite. “I’m just sayin’, the way I see it—”

“Let’s just… keep this between the three of us for now.” Hershel held up his hand, using the gesture as a silent apology for interrupting, but also with the intentions of keeping everybody from getting ahead of themselves. “We don’t wanna cause a panic or lift anybody’s hopes up.”

“Yeah?” Rick’s voice went almost opaque on the one word, like he’d just been slandered, like he thought the very thought was unfair. “Well, what about _my_ hopes?”

_“Dad?”_


	8. Risk Of Rain

Rick’s eyes reacted to his son’s voice in place of his own.

Against their earlier anger, they softened with forming tears and in that moment he wanted to call out, say his boy’s name, but he couldn’t get his tongue around the knot in his throat. He was thunderstruck with all of the emotion and worry he felt back at Woodbury earlier, how he never thought he’d ever see his son again, let alone hear him sounding so young, which made him realize how scared Carl must’ve been after hearing he’d been kidnapped.

The thought immediately had Rick’s heart heavy and overjoyed at the same time, and he dropped his head against his chest, wanting to plug his fingers deep into his sockets to try and stunt whatever was trying to fall. But since his shoulders didn’t allow that he was left staring at the underside of his knuckles and swallowing hard. They were swollen pretty bad, making him look more like a victim than survivor, like somebody really had fun going to town on him.

Beaten to death would’ve been an understatement, but even though Rick wasn’t turned like he initially anticipated, looking like this still had its shortcomings, and he unintentionally pulled at the front of his shirt next. In doing so, missing Hershel’s nod.

“We’ll talk about this later.” Hershel leaned forward and squeezed Rick’s shoulder, ignoring the flinch he got in return. But the old man warmed up a smile anyways, before crutching his way to the arch of the cell as a mascot of sorts. “He’s in here.”

In that split second, Carl came pushing into the room like it was his own. He was out of breath, his face red and sweaty, and Rick knew that look – he’d seen it plenty of times over the past couple months. Carl’d been crying, and Rick figured his son must’ve dropped everything he was doing just to come running over after hearing he was up and about. The boy had good intentions n’ all, but he was always too quick to act.

“Is he OK?” Carl panted, as frank as ever with his question to Hershel, before turning his head to see his father with his own, two eyes, giving him the same candidness. If not more. “You OK?”

How he was reacting though only went to show how much he took after his dad whether it was intentional or not, and when Rick didn’t respond fast enough, barely managing to hand his empty mug to Daryl, Carl was rushing in for a hug like he hadn’t seen him in ages.

“Carl…” Rick croaked, paternally wanting his son to stay back because of the filth on his clothes, but subconsciously he was already bending in expectation of the embrace. “Carl, hey, wait—”

The rest of Rick’s hushing fell with his eyes as Carl’s head slipped under his chin and his small hands wrapped tightly around his waist, squeezing him like he was never going to let go again. Rick breathed into his son’s hair, rocking with him in his arms. Regardless of the pain, the gesture was so precious it almost made Rick want to smile. In fact, he did. Only, it probably looked more pained than anything.

He was still hurting, after all. His injuries from the Governor still held a certain smite – would for another week or so, he gathered. But Carl didn’t know that, and Rick would never tell him. Yet when he tried to talk his son down, to reassure him that he was _fine_ , Carl still wouldn’t let go, not until Daryl stepped in.

“Ease up there, scout.” Daryl pulled at Carl’s shoulder, all the while setting the tea mug on the floor and scooping for Rick’s deputy hat, which’d fallen in the doorway. He placed it back on the kid’s head after that, almost to the point of covering his eyes. “Yer ol’man needs to get back to a hundred-n-ten percent before he can even think ‘bout handlin’ you.”

Rick’s eyes upturned slightly, lessening some of the red around them. He was surprised that the man’d said that with such a straight face, better still while standing right next to him.

In terms of years, Rick liked to think they weren’t that much older than one another, both looking somewhere in their late thirties, early forties. Without actually asking though, the exact age difference was debatable, but Rick knew enough not to take the reference seriously. ‘Specially after he caught the subtle humor in Daryl’s expression and how the man lightly nudged Carl into a smile.

Rick admired their stamina in a soft snort. “You good now?” He searched for Carl’s eyes as he cleared some of his hair from them, showing just how puffy they’d really been.

“Yeah…” Carl nodded through a sniff, juggling his response between a soft laugh and just talk. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good.” Rick went to go give a tap of his own to the hat, thinking he could, but balked instead when feeling the elasticity in his shoulders resist. Having them motionless for so long had left them too sore to lift any higher than the middle of his chest, so he settled for a pinch at Carl’s lower arm in its place, playfully, just as Hershel poked his head back in.

“Before I forget. Carl, why don’t you go turn the generator on for your dad?” Hershel motioned to Rick’s shirt and jeans with an uncomfortable smile. “I think it’s ‘bout time he got himself cleaned up.”

That sounded like a great idea, the best Rick’d heard all day, and he was almost taken aback when there wasn’t even so much as hesitation from his boy with an _I don’t know how to work the machinery_ excuse. In the next second Carl was gone, seemingly pleased to do anything to help him out. But just wait until next week, Rick predicted, he’d be back in his _I don’t have to listen to anybody_ mood, questioning every word and move. But what to do?

“Smart kid.” Daryl said, and Rick knew his boy was, just like he also knew that rebellion was to be expected from somebody his age.

Carl was still only fourteen after all, meaning there was plenty of room left for growing pains. So Rick vowed he’d let it slide when the time came rolling around, and quietly ran a hand down the front of his shirt in thought. It felt sandy, heavy and stiff like his jeans, like they’d just been taken out of a dryer, and suddenly Rick felt squeamish when finally thinking about his appearance for once, how he must be a sight before taking half a step to lessen the pressure on his injured calf, which was still throbbing.

“I…” Rick licked his lips, slow, as if they were chapped and he didn’t want them to rip before continuing. “I don’t think I can get all this out in one go…”

That also went for the memories, but he was trying here.

“I don’t expect you to. Take as much time as you need and don’t worry ‘bout the water.” Hershel unblocked the door with a hop. “I’ll ask Carol to find ya a new pair’a jeans and wash your old shirt later.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Rick would, and already did.

Everybody was already doing so much for him as it was. Daryl too, who was quick to get the door, casting it aside carelessly, like a nurse moving obstacles for a patient. But Rick just wanted to be perfectly frank with him and held up a hand with the motion of _I got it_ , to which Daryl acknowledged with a restrained sulk. Rick could see it pulling at the man’s lips, making it look like he was thinking he’d just done something wrong. Aside from being too eager, Daryl didn’t, and Rick patted the man’s chest reassuringly, leaving his hand there a little too long despite never letting their eyes meet—

not until they were in the shower stalls, ‘til Rick figured he’d spoken too soon.

As a matter of fact, he _did_ need help, a whole lot of it, as he shortly found out when trying to work at his jacket. His shoulders just wouldn’t cooperate, less than he’d of liked them to at least, and before long he was giving up trying to remove it, letting his arms drop with a _wounded hiss_ , drawing Daryl’s attention from the doorway.

_“Ya alright?”_

The man hadn’t quite worked up to leaving yet, hovering around like a dog waiting for leftovers at a table ever since he’d put a couple towels on the sink. But Rick was feeling too stubborn to answer truthfully. He was more preoccupied thinking he had to stay strong for whatever reason, as if he was still with Carl and had to set an example, and Rick quickly brushed Daryl off by showing the man his back as he tried his jacket again.

“Yeah… _I’m alright_.” Rick unoriginally bounced the words around as he tucked his chin, feeling the muscles in his neckline strain, but unlike his arms the pain was tolerable. Except when he got the same results with his jacket a second and third time, Rick finally decided to accept his defeat. “Actually…” He heard Daryl stop breathing, like listening was more important. “No… No, not really.”

Rick even grumbled something extra about being _more beat-up than he thought_ with a small scoff. Only, his murmur probably came across more like a complaint than anything. But Daryl didn’t seem to judge. He didn’t ask any questions, either. He just let the silence hold after Rick didn’t go through with the glance over his shoulder before aligning himself in a press right up against Rick’s back.

“Hold up.”

Daryl’s voice was barely a whisper as he fiddled with the collar of Rick’s jacket in a tug, making himself useful until both arms were free from each sleeve. It was a moment that had Rick feeling like he’d just shed a year’s worth of stress and he rubbed at his bruised wrist in soft grunt before Daryl tapped at his shoulder with two fingers.

“Turn ‘round.”

Rick didn’t know why or what for, but complied anyways. Slowly at first, not even asking when facing the man, and watched mutely as Daryl took to undoing the buttons of his shirt, starting at the top. He must’ve known Rick wouldn’t have been able to reach the last three under his chin by himself, and Rick felt humored when watching the man fumble.

Daryl’s concentration was something else, even the way he licked his lips when spotting Rick gawking, the way he gave a short glance after that before deciding to move closer when one button gave him hell. But despite that, the fasten still wouldn’t give.

“Hey…” Rick hooked a few fingers in the crevice of the man’s elbow in a gentle halt, stealing Daryl’s attention for a second. “You don’t have’ta do this… I can manage from here.”

It was a white lie, but Rick figured it was better than making Daryl _think_ he was indebted to undress him. Though in a way, Rick also saw the man as stalling. For what? He didn’t know, not until Daryl undid the last button on his shirt, and pulled it from his arms as well.

“You mean what ya said?” Daryl murmured, solemnly and out of the blue, as he thumbed the fabric like he was trying to rub out Rick’s bloodstains, like he was guilty that he wasn’t there to protect him or some other kind of form of self-blame.

“About what?” Rick brushed distractedly at whatever dirt smudges he could reach on his now-bare chest before seeing Daryl staring at the bruise on his stomach. “The bite? Yeah… Yeah, I did.”

“Nah, I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout that.” Daryl’s words came rough as he pitched the shirt onto the ground and out of the way. “What you said last night…” He browed Rick like he was supposed to know what he was talking about, but Rick didn’t really follow where the man was coming from.

“I said a lot’a thangs, Daryl. You gotta be more specific—”

“ _If you love me…_ ” Daryl’s voice was low and husky, low like he didn’t want to be heard, but he was. Rick heard him, and almost immediately regretted asking.

“Oh, that…” Rick exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t meant to sound out like a sigh, but it did. A sigh of exhaustion. It made him feel ten times older than he already was, and got him thinking about what he’d have to do to make this right again. Apologize? For what? Telling the man how he really felt? Would Daryl accept that? ‘Cause to Rick, no matter what he said things weren’t going to be the same anymore, and frankly, he wasn’t sure if they could handle that – be _prepared_ for that.

After all, change was a scary thing. It forced them to think ahead, to make decisions for the future, a future run by codes and instinct nowadays, a time that’d come for them to be looking back on this conversation, thinking if they did the right thing, _said_ the right thing… And Rick needed to make that choice here.

Though Daryl wasn’t helping when he leaned in real close when noticing Rick working around his answer, _struggling_ around his answer, which eventually came in a mumble.

“I was, uh…” Rick didn’t realize he was meeting the man’s lean until his eyes eventually flickered up. He wanted to curse the chill in the air, his fever, the adrenaline or testosterone, but really, it wasn’t any of those.

“Rick, when you were taken… When I found ya, I…”

“I know.” Daryl didn’t have to explain himself. He’d done enough, and Rick sharply stole a trembling glance down after noting how both their noses were dangerously close to touching and that they were literally sharing the same air. “…I know.”

Rick’s bottom lip never met his top, not with how slack his mouth was feeling, and he couldn’t help but stare at the man’s own with a slight tilt of his head, soon rolling his eyes to anywhere but. He honestly didn’t realize how much he’d wanted to taste them before, to feel them brush against his, and was surprised when Daryl acted first.

The man transparently motioned in for a kiss, bending forward at the waist all slow, cupping Rick just behind his ear in a pull forward. But Rick cut him short by tucking his chin. “Daryl, wait…”

“Why? I know ya wanna. You’re starin’ hard enough.”

“No.” Rick tried to fight his urge to give in, tried to fight himself – to _deny_ himself the privilege when it was everything he’d wanted. Right here, this very second. “No, we can’t…”

“Never stopped ya before.” Daryl’s tone was almost teasing, baiting Rick to break the rules – whatever rules those were. Self-made, perhaps, like this was some kind of classroom and Daryl was proud to be the bad influence? Except he was right.

Goddammit, Daryl was _so_ right. Rick did… _he did_ want this. Now, more than ever.

Rick moved what he could of his fingers to rest on either side of Daryl’s hips. They were aching for the man’s touch, and in that moment Rick ignored how his wedding ring felt more like a saddle of liability than a memory, and allowed Daryl to take his jaw again when the man motioned a second time.

Rick gasped slightly as Daryl pulled him into his mouth, swallowing and sucking hungrily like he was deprived of something. Rick knew the feeling, and despite the throe of his body he tried as he could to match the man’s appetite, quickly finding a pace after a couple knocked teeth, up until they broke apart in a wet sound and pant. There was barely even a breather before they were at it again. Tomfoolery was dancing behind Daryl’s eyes the whole time as he sucked at Rick’s lower lip, grazed his face with his stubbled chin and growled through a shudder they both felt.

Daryl was an animal. He was an _animal_ , drunk on instinct and greed… and Rick _liked_ it. ‘Specially when the man’s coat came off, removed while still stuck to his lips, and even though it was aimed to land on the water barrel against the back wall – Daryl never really far off his mark – it missed.

Rick couldn’t really blame him though, seeing as their priorities were everywhere and anywhere, and it wasn’t long until Daryl’s shirt was the next to fall to the floor, uncovering those arms Rick revered so much. They were real tepid, radiating so much heat that it felt like Rick was basking in the sun’s rays, and he wanted to think himself just as temperate. But when he finally touched Daryl’s bare skin, the man was quick to suck the air right out of Rick’s mouth with a teethed wince.

“Fuck, you’re cold.”

Rick took Daryl’s word for it. He laughed through a breath as his fingers felt their way over to the man’s scar, the arrow’s scar, doing the same for his own bullet, where he’d been shot. Over the course of the long months, it seemed like they’d both been roughed up good, been through some _things_ of their own. But Rick guessed that was what brought them closer together, making them pieces of the same puzzle, pieces that fit… They just _fit_.

“Then help me—” Rick slurred against Daryl’s lips before he took a step back, motioning to his jeans in temptation with the dip of his chin and a rested hand on his hip. “Help me get these off.”

Like Rick’s chest, Daryl’s was heaving with excitement. Only, his face was much darker. It looked like a lot of blood was rushing through his jugular, causing a blush to flush his complexion red. He must’ve been aware of it, awkward too, ‘cause his eyes soon slanted as they looked up and down, like he had to double-check permission, like he needed to be told again what it was he was being drafted to do next – if it was _al’right_. But Rick’d had enough of Daryl’s second-guessing nature and shoved the man by his belt into a kneel.

A very reprimanding kneel.

“Don’t think…” Rick all but grunted. “ _Warm me_.”


	9. Finger Lickin' Good

Oh, and Daryl warmed Rick, all right.

There was a spark of something mischievous in the man’s eyes when he snagged the tongue of Rick’s belt. It looked like unprocessed lust, a crude and deep hunger. Rick felt it, too. More so, when Daryl started working the leather through his buckle, knuckling the bare skin around his lower abdominal muscles every now and again when the prong wouldn’t give.

It was a series of touches that had Rick’s stomach squeezing tight with butterflies and his soles rocking forward in a sort of thoughtless undulation, mocking the pushes and pulls of Daryl’s hands, which were shaking. In haste or from nerves? It was hard to tell right then, but Rick would guess the latter.

They were standing in the prison’s only shower stalls, after all, meaning it’d be easy for somebody to walk in on them without knocking.

That’d be a sight, for sure. But something in the back of Rick’s mind told him that no one’d be coming down anytime soon, giving some rest to his worry and a sudden desire for them to take it slower, to hold onto this feeling – to _savor it_.

Rick lulled at the idea and gradually moved his hands atop Daryl’s in a gentle halt. “Shh, shh shh…” He cooed through a whisper. “Hey now.”

With a sensual stare, Rick stirred Daryl’s fingers against the front of his buckle again, slow and steady, showing the man the pace he hoped they’d go at before sucking in. After that, it went one notch after another. Daryl was much calmer by then, and in next to no time Rick’s lungs were nearly empty and his belt was loose and hanging by his side… unlike another part of him.

Rick could already feel his own cock roused and pushing hard through the front of his jeans, relishing every little touch thereafter, how those touches sent bolts of stimuli throughout his core like lightning, and Rick mused at how easy it was to get turned on by Daryl. Even if he wasn’t in his prime today, looking like something the cat dragged in from the roadside, he still felt young and in love. Daryl had that contagious energy about him, and Rick could only watch lustfully as the man took things into his own hands.

In a scoot, Daryl swiveled on one knee, reaching for the zipper of Rick’s jeans and unfastening the fly in a steady drawl. Rick fought a shiver as he heard the teeth part. The sound alone was enough to curl his toes, the rush of cold air that skimmed his thighs afterwards only helped, and he didn’t expect Daryl’s hand to join so soon after that. But it did, and Rick gasped.

Only, the sound he made came more from amusement than anything, ‘specially when Daryl started to knead him like he was lathering soap, real nice and slow. Just like Rick wanted.

Rick’s head rolled back to the ceiling in a stirred moan as he entangled his fingers within Daryl’s wild hair, bracing himself with a light roll of his hips for what he knew was to come, and Daryl wasted no time in giving the incentive. He took Rick into his mouth without a second thought, being ever so efficient with his tongue. Rick groaned as he felt it trace over his head, tease his tip and sketch his veins – basically everything, and the suck that followed was more than anything he’d ever imagined.

Rick felt a wave of heat unfurl in his belly as Daryl’s velvet mouth contracted around his cock, as he felt the man swallow whatever precum like a drink. Rick’s eyes wilted shut as he tucked his chin. Not his lips, though. He couldn’t find the strength to close them. They stayed parted, and he could only pray that he didn’t have the most ridiculous look on his face right then.

“Dammit… Daryl.” Rick blathered, and for a minute he forgot about the screaming of his shoulders and covered his mouth with a wrist, thinking he’d try to stifle the break in his voice along with his elated hum when the feeling of warmth started to grow and stretch between his thighs. But Daryl heard him and didn’t waste any time muffling fun with his maw still full, either.

“Ya sound like a damn coon.”

Did he? It was Rick’s turn to try and not sound so strangled when managing something close to a chuckle, overlooking how his lungs ached with it and how they rubbed against his sore ribs as his breaths deepened. Ignorance extracted its revenge though, and Rick felt his knees all but buckle at another suck from Daryl and a particular sharp intake of air.

Thankfully enough, the plastic curtains around were there for support when Rick’s arms went out on either side of him, and he used them for a good five seconds before letting go. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain to the next person that came ‘round how the hangings turned up on the floor. Although, when giving it some thought, it didn’t seem that hard to justify. It definitely wouldn’t be an unlikely story if he just fibbed and said that he _fell_ – given the circumstances.

But Rick didn’t want to be grounded, period, and after hearing Daryl snort in amusement, he slapped the side of his head. Playfully, of course, before edging the man on with his body.

“Come back up here.”

This wasn’t going to be a one-sided story, not if Rick could help it. No, this was going to go both ways. He wanted to make Daryl talk as much as he was lipping him and figured it was due time he gave the man a little something for his efforts, and Daryl did anything but disagree. He didn’t look surprised either, just slick with his lips, damp hair, and voice aged like lager.

“I can do that.” After one, last blow, Daryl rose and Rick met him halfway, leading him into a stand with his mouth.

But the man didn’t stay with his lead him for long.

Daryl was like a hound on a trail, and somewhere around Rick’s stomach he started exploring what he wanted, _where_ he wanted. With a prolific lick, Daryl raked his tongue above Rick’s navel, into his fine chest hair and all the way to his collarbone, planting kisses and nips along the way like he was hunting before making one of Rick’s nipples his target, rolling it between his teeth in an attempt to take a bite.

Rick was ready to moan at the sensation. But seemingly in a spur, Daryl resisted the urge and moved to an area elsewhere, somewhere higher, leaving Rick with his voice hitched in his throat and his psyche fixed with frustration. Daryl made up for it though by moving a hand back between his thighs, and Rick felt himself growing harder and unwinding with every jerk of the man’s wrist, ‘specially when Daryl’s shoulders were now working with his manipulation.

It didn’t take long for Rick to cum after that, and he breathlessly buried his head into the dip of Daryl’s neck, sensing every bit of how his juices slid over the man’s fist and between his fingers.

Rick considered puling Daryl’s name, but for some reason he couldn’t get his mind to form it right. It was leavened with euphoria, just as his mouth was too busy rising against the man’s trachea like contact alone would refill his own lungs and how his hands soon gingered up to Daryl’s belt to work on it at the same speed he said not to earlier. Rick hated going back on his word, but the man’d ragged him a little too far, which showed when he yanked firmly at Daryl’s strap after being met with resistance.

Why Daryl even bothered playing tough to get was beyond him.

With their chests so close together, Rick could practically see that the man was hard – _feel_ that he was hard. It was almost too obvious with the way Daryl was pressed right up against his hip, and Rick snorted in laughter when the man gave a grunt, that little shoulder antic too, the one he’d do when feeling offish or provoked. But other than that, Rick paid it no regard. The man’s insecurities could wait and after another fiddle at Daryl’s jeans, the man’s cock was free and in his hand, to which Rick squeezed passionately, causing Daryl to wince in a winded huff.

“Easy, cowboy. I ain’t no gun.”

Rick knew that, but he bet he could cock him like one all the same, and stared deeply into Daryl’s eyes as he began jerking him off. At first, gradually. Up until Daryl started pursing his lips, and breaking eye contact to drop his head with a kind of impressed expression.

“Ya ain’t half bad.”

Rick took it as a compliment, figuring if he learned anything from self-pleasing himself in the past he’d apply it now, and in next to no time he had Daryl cumming like he’d done him before, until they were both good and pressed tight against the shower walls, tangled and twisted in their clothes and lips. Jesus Christ. It felt like they were drunk out of their minds, the adrenaline and passion taking over any common sense or rationalities, and even though both of their mouths were numb from the kisses, their hands numb from their jobs, each of their eyes were still asking for more. And Rick wasn’t ready to call it a night.

Neither was Daryl.

Their panting was telling enough, how their breath puffed hot against each other’s cheeks as they both just found themselves enrapt by their reflections in one another’s eyes, until Rick looked down in a shiver. He had Daryl’s fingers to thank for that, which were trailing not quite around his hips in outer motions, in rubs, lower and lower, and Rick nearly whirred.

Daryl was being frisky, in the mood for play too, so Rick figured he’d best start giving the man what he wanted… what they _both_ wanted.

And Rick’d never been so sure in his life when he started inching what was left of his own pants down, somewhere around his knees, all the while noticing Daryl further his to about the same height before being spun away and pinned against the wall.

It was a rough gesture, sure, but not rough enough to flip the mood of passion they had going, and truthfully, Rick kind of liked it. Craved it, actually. All this time playing ringleader made him forget the feeling of influence and it hit like an addiction, a rush of pleasure, and no sooner was Daryl aligning his back with his front, taking in his scent in like he was snorting drugs.

Rick couldn’t see him, but him hearing was enough. Daryl was intoxicated with desire, radiating so much heat that he wanted the man now, needed him now. More to the point… wanted Daryl _inside him_ now. Hell, Rick was as good as ready, feeling about as wet as a towel, and when Daryl hesitated he all but moaned.

“Go on.” Rick murmured in what sounded like a plea, flouting how much of it actually echoed like a demand. Could Daryl really blame him, though?

After all, they’d started something here and Rick wasn’t about to be left out to dry, not when his mind was lost to the thought of sex and when his body was now hankered for it, _prepped_ for it.

Rick didn’t think he could handle another episode of Daryl having cold feet and belatedly nudged back on the man with a raw look, feeling as possessed as the goddess Aphrodite herself when he still didn’t continue, only mumble something about _not having any lube_. Yet despite that fact, that was the last thing on Rick’s list of wants.

“I don’t need it.” Rick nearly choked. He really didn’t think they would, and he didn’t say it just for the hell of wasting breath either. He meant it.

“Yeah, but—”

“Just you.”

Rick’d made his decision a while ago. If he was going to feel pain, he wanted it to be _pure_. What’s more, he wanted it to be _Daryl_ , and he snaked one of his hands around to the man’s thigh before mouthing a silent _please,_ to which Daryl nodded – the sort of nod he gave when not too convinced about something. But Rick figured he’d still do it.

Give the man a task and he’d do anything.

Beholden to that image, it didn’t take long for Daryl to pick up from where he left off. In a light stroke, he began tracing the outline of Rick’s rear, each time nearing the middle of his ass like it was the hind end of a horse that he didn’t want to spook. But Rick wasn’t all too spooked, not with him. Though that didn’t stop his stomach from riding into his throat when he heard the man wet a pair of fingers with his tongue, getting them all good and juiced, before sticking them inside him with a taunting push.

Rick deemed it a taunt, but to Daryl it might’ve been something else. A test to see what he could get away with? Either way, the man did it gently, twisting, stretching him like he was made of rubber, once, twice, and Rick had to restrain himself from falling head-over-heels from the rush.

Before tonight he’d never dreamed of trying anal sex out for size or even trying it out at all, that change came with the newfangled world, and although Rick didn’t know if they were doing it right or wrong, right now he didn’t care. Whatever the circumstances, Daryl seemed to be doing a good job, a _damn_ good job, and Rick groaned into his fist when he felt one of the man’s fingers clip something inside him – a spot real sensitive, and it was just enough of a touch to make him gasp like he was owing to pain.

In this case, satisfaction.

The sensation, it was something new, something different, and gloriously satiating all at once when Daryl pulled back to suck three more of his other digits, one pop at a time, before returning in a fervent fondle, twisting every finger up inside Rick but the thumb.

It was a toe-curling comeback and Rick felt his walls clench down around them, naturally sensing how his hips wanted to drop with the motion. But he fought the attraction and rose instead, continually allowing himself to be expanded in and out, and the feelings that followed were amazing. Hell, maybe even a little much, which got Rick thinking he was going to be worn out by the time they actually _did_ anything…

But he let Daryl continue as long as he could stand it, let the man keep stretching him, moistening him, almost to the point that he thought he was on the verge of losing it, that Daryl was going to reach that sweet spot inside him again. Only, Rick wasn’t about to let it get that far. Not like this, anyways.

“That’s… That’s far enough.” Rick panted over his shoulder, taking a beat to groggily lean and spin the closest of the shower nozzles.

To Daryl it might’ve seemed like something last minute, but Rick thought he had a reason for it, thinking how it’d set the mood a little better, maybe even add an extra slickness to their coats as if they were seals, making it easier to slip and slide, so to say. And for a second they just stood there, letting the water run warm, steaming their vision and silking their skin with a little bit of heaven – not to mention that of actual heat, until pretty soon everything was hazy.

But a good kind of hazy, if there ever was such a thing. Although with it, Daryl looked more like a miserable cat.

“Could’a done without…” Daryl sputtered as the spray clouded his lips, sagging his bangs right into his eyes, and he spit to the side as if to prove his point.

“Yeah, well, gotta get a wash in somehow.” Rick countered as he repositioned himself back against the wall, palms flat as he spread both his legs a little wider for Daryl to move up behind him again, almost in a prep.

“Just lemme know when then—”

“ _When_.” Rick caught himself off guard with the haste of his own voice. Though frankly, Daryl could’ve said anything right then and there and he still would’ve answered just as quick.

Rick’s eyes were already glazed with so much lust it outshone his stale fever and the heat of the shower as it was, ostensibly strengthening the pulsing of his own cock, which felt about ready to burst from neglect. He could tell Daryl’s felt the same from the way it brushed his opening, all erect and throb-like, and even though his warmth was lost among the water Rick knew it was still there, he _wanted_ it to still be there.

All things considered, it made Rick feel less like a stranger and more like a tender lover, ‘specially with how the man embraced his hips with his hands – hands that’d been through hell yet were still soft to the touch, mind the calluses, but that didn’t make them any less pleasant. Rick was satisfied with the care they showed, how one slithered around his front and the other slipped between his cheeks in ready of Daryl’s cock.

It told him the man was trying, and Rick arched his spine the best he could to make this easier for the both of them. Except it didn’t help much…

Expectation had him sinking back earlier than he should’ve, and Rick nearly bowled over at Daryl’s size and length. Christ. He didn’t expect the man to be _that_ full, and while he proceeded to take Daryl in what followed was a mixture of pleasure and pain – a pain that bordered ecstasy, and for a minute Rick almost thought he was going to pass out from the sheer force. His moan made that clear.

_“Feel right?”_

Daryl’s question snapped Rick from focusing on the gray areas in his vision. The man hadn’t even started moving yet, but he was already panting, like it was some roundabout way of checking if he was hurting him. Rick knew that was the last thing the man wanted to do, what he himself wanted to _put_ him through, but Daryl didn’t have to worry. ‘Cause honestly, he felt fine. Maybe even _better_ than fine, even though he probably didn’t look it.

Rick could feel his own lips ajar, arms shaking. But it wasn’t a scared shake, more like euphoria, and he made to tell Daryl that after a simple adjust, on his toes and in a short glance. “Just a bit tight.”

That was the only way he could think to put it, thinking it sounded right. After all, it’d been a while since he’d had any sort of intercourse, ever since the camp next to Atlanta with Lori, Hershel’s farm… Rick reckoned it was the same for Daryl, maybe even longer – seeing as he knew little to nothing about the man’s sex life before the outbreak. So what they had right here was almost like an overdue experience. A _passionate_ experience.

In this moment, they were showing how tender each of them could actually be. It was to get their humanity back, Rick figured, to get it back and in check. Ultimately, all this hunting, farming, surviving for their lives by killing had really taken its toll on sanity, their sanity, and as far as Rick was concerned they were just reclaiming it. Him with his nod and Daryl with his nose, which traced the blades of his shoulders among the shower’s rain, all the while sensually pressing closer and tonguing along the rut of his spine, licking his back like a horse needing salt.

With the room misty and hot it was almost romantic by the time they established their pace. Daryl took the initiative, and Rick wouldn’t lie that it hurt at first. But after he girt his teeth through a few more pumps he was in high heaven, unwinding just like his bangs, which’d been pulled from their normal style to curl and barely touch the tops of his brows. They weren’t long enough to cover his eyes, though.

Rick could still see enough of his own hips rolling to try and meet Daryl’s with equal force when he looked down. Only, seeing wasn’t everything. He could hear the wet slops, too. Their moans. Their love was like a contagious hum, a mixture of contentment and crazed excitement, complementing the rise and fall of their chests, their pushes, their sways. ‘Specially when Daryl plunged deeper, hitting that goddamn spot inside Rick again. It was much more prominent this time with how thick Daryl was, and Rick’s head was quick to snap back in a glance and gasp.

The wall was his crutch after that, and pretty soon he was sandwiched between Daryl’s hot body and damp tiles, feeling about as delicate as porcelain. It didn’t matter how irregular the man’s pace was, Rick could sense it all – when Daryl was slowing down, when he was thinking about speeding back up, and when the man wasn’t groping Rick’s side or thigh, he was fisting his ball sack or cock like a tease. And he was.

Daryl was a fucking tease, and he knew it. His simper said it all, and Rick soon hung his head. But not in defeat. It was to hide a smile, a smile Rick knew would get Daryl to question his reason, one he hadn’t been able to grow since sometime last week. Happiness was the heart of Rick’s motivation and it felt good to stretch his lips for once, just about as good as Daryl felt swelling inside him like a sponge.

Rick shuddered at the fullness. He could practically feel the cum building up within his walls, congesting him, and leaving him heavy on his toes. Daryl thrusts were rubbing every bit of him raw as they hastened for a climax, another release, and it couldn’t have happened any later. Rick couldn’t have _wished_ it any later. They were both so close to cumming again – so close that he could almost taste it, even with the shower washing away their premature spills.

“Shit, Rick…” Daryl murmured among his hair, sounding his name like a lyric to some song.

Rick tried to responded, but whatever was coherent of his next words drowned with their moans, until everything was being mumbled with no meaning. But honestly, no saying could really describe how Rick was feeling, and from then on Daryl caught on. Instead, he let his teeth do the talking with a strong bite to Rick’s lower back, like he was a dog marking his territory… or maybe just a man letting out a few kinks.

Either way, it was a physical and instinctive reaction, eons from ruining the mood. Better yet, it made Rick feel wanted – maybe even _protected_. For the most part, it made him feel like he wasn’t alone anymore, which was perfect. _He_ was perfect, Daryl, and Rick was stilling musing to himself when the man’s seed filled him, leaving any excess to trickle out from between his thighs.

By and large, their climax was a rush that came twice, and there was a part of Rick that wanted to hold on to that experience when he clasped his hand to his abdomen, feeling his stomach pulsating under his touch. He wanted to feel this again, to have Daryl drive up inside him more times than he could count. Every morning. Every night. Only, maybe that was selfish of him to think they could after a one night stand, which was kind of what this was… Wasn’t it?

Rick’s breath was shaky when he sank back against Daryl’s cock, realizing quite suddenly that he’d gone tense, that his body was telling him it was time to quit. Like all good things, it had to come to an end. Even Daryl’s pour, which was short-lived, washed down the drain when he pulled out. But the impression wasn’t. It was still there, inside Rick, something he wouldn’t forget, and together they sagged against the wall, both content and breathing like they had asthma.

Though they didn’t mind it.

They’d _live_ , and that’s all that mattered. The fact that they were alive, _safe_ in each other’s arms… that was everything.


	10. A Bird In The Hand

No talking, just listening.

Rick figured now was one of those moments where he’d simply let slip with time and purely breathe. He could hear Daryl behind him doing the same, feel each hot exhale at the crest of his shoulders. Neither of them had convinced themselves to move just yet, even with the mist of the room gone, the water streaming cold.

Five minutes easily turned into ten, which was when Rick finally felt Daryl shift from where they’d separated against the shower walls, pressing a hand against the middle of his back before placing a tender kiss on the area he’d marked earlier. Daryl’s lips were thin and tender, but Rick’s skin reacted as though they weren’t and he winced, guessing he had a bruise there as he reached over his shoulder the best he could.

In seconds, Rick’s fingers were lost within Daryl’s hair as he gathered just enough flexibility to encompass the base of the man’s neck in a soft squeeze, then pat to _let go_.

“‘Ight…” Daryl understood the gesture and after laying one, final kiss he unshadowed Rick with his body.

Rick exhaled loudly as he felt the air knife between them, all his warmth seemingly fleeing as Daryl shuffled away to fight his boots off and the rest of his jeans. After pushing himself from the wall, Rick followed suit but at a much slower pace when feeling the aftereffects of what they’d just done beginning to seep into his muscles, along with a fire deep within his belly.

But it was worth it, Rick decided… what they had _here_ was worth it, and since he couldn’t convince himself otherwise he smiled quietly through the rest of his shower. Or at least until the water was coming out in drips instead of its normal gush and he had a dry towel around his waist, fiddling with the seams absentmindedly as he waited for Daryl to do up his own.

“Thank you.” Rick shifted his weight where he stood, trying not to sound too tired but indebted. “What we did… What you did for me, I want you to know—”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Daryl pampered, voice husked as he finally succeeded in knotting his towel. His shoulders were sagging a little now, a sign that he was human too as he scrounged for his belongings – those that weren’t badly soaked anyways. “I better get goin’. ‘Case somebody starts lookin’ for me, y’know?”

Rick breathed in longingly through his nose and nodded, thinking about how normal they were acting now, like nothing had happened at all. How easy it was was almost scary, like they’d already done this a hundred times before. But maybe that was a good thing?

“Yeah, well you are Mr. Popular ‘round here.” Rick teased, not out of jealously or disappointment that everything was falling back to the way it was, it was just a nickname that he thought fit was all.

Ever since day one Daryl’d been admired by all the new folk they’d brought into the prison. ‘Specially the younger ones, and honestly, Rick didn’t see why not. The man had a soft heart. Even though he didn’t look it, didn’t _act it,_ it was still there. It showed every time he’d come back from a hunt, trying extra hard to make sure they all had enough food.

It made him stand out – everybody’s favorite, their supporter – and from where Rick was standing it should’ve been taken as a compliment. Or, if Daryl felt awkward in any way about accepting their gratitude, then a grain of salt. Though truthfully, it looked more like the praise made him uneasy than ungrateful and Rick reckoned it was because the man wasn’t used to the attention. Daryl’s late snort was proof enough.

“Stop.”

“Hey.” Rick half-shrugged. “We just gotta make the best of it.”

 _We_. Rick was being inclusive on purpose, like it was also something he was trying to convince himself of, convince himself that it was up to _them_ to make things go according to plan as he enduringly scooped at his wet clothing on the floor, nabbing Daryl’s vest by the water barrel in the process, shortly returning it after with a toss.

“Here, don’t forget this.”

Rick’s aim was spot on, except he wasn’t thinking when he threw it, barely giving Daryl the chance to turn around. But the man managed, looking something like a pitcher mishandling a ball as he caught it, soon to hold it out in front of him like it was a dead rat, not knowing exactly what to do with it. It was soaking, dripping all over the place, and Daryl eyed Rick a few times before shaking his head without even bothering to put it on.

Instead, Daryl slung it over his shoulder like it was his crossbow with a wet _slop_ , and for a moment they just stood there in awkward silence. Though it wasn’t really awkward at all, more like content. They were _content_ with their actions, but Rick just had to be sure of something when he saw the man turning to leave.

“If somebody asks…”

Daryl stopped like he thought Rick was going to tell him something special, a script maybe, give him a _signal_ , and Rick almost swore the man’s shoulders twitched in recognition when he started addressing his vest.

“What’re you gonna tell them?”

“That I fell.” Daryl didn’t even think twice before he replied, and Rick almost wanted to laugh at how implausible that wisecrack’d be if the man actually went through with using it as an excuse.

“In what? The pond outside the fences? It’s like what, below fifty out there?”

Daryl paused at that, and Rick guessed the man got what he was getting at because no sooner was he shoving at air like it was a person. “Man, they don’ gotta know where… S’none of their damn business anyways!”

Daryl’s face was a little red now, and if Rick didn’t know any better, he’d say he was blushing. The man was the type to be easily embarrassed, after all, and if there was one thing Rick’d learned about him year-round, it was that Daryl hated being caught in a lie or put under pressure. So he figured he’d cut him some slack and leave it as it was. Daryl did have a point anyways. A good one…

 _No one_ had to know what they did.

“You on watch tonight?” Rick asked as he adjusted the knot in his towel, glancing up.

“Nah.” Daryl shook his head, ruffling his hair like he would a wet dog. “Michonne is, though… Why?”

“No reason.” Rick didn’t have one, not really. “Was just wonderin’ where you’d be if I needed to find you.”

Daryl almost looked a little taken aback, one-third flattered and a quarter worried. “Don’ wanna see you up there. Ya need yer rest.” He finished as he made to leave again, only to walk a complete circle like he had nowhere to go but ‘round. “Ya gonna be alright on yer way back?”

Rick watched as Daryl nodded at his calf, wincing like it was his own injury. Better still, obviously stalling again.

“Are you?” Rick deflected, eyeing Daryl’s towel. After all, they were both in same predicament here… it was all they were wearing.

“S’fine.” Daryl shrugged. “I’ll make it quick.”

“And I’ll _manage_.” Rick reassured, meeting the man’s gaze with one of his own. “It’s not that far, and I was thinkin’ about checkin’ up on Carl before kickin’ my feet up for the evenin’… See how he’s doin’.”

“Alright… You earned it.”

Rick wasn’t going to argue there and brushed at his hair with a set of fingers like they were a comb, ending with a rub at the base of his neck. Neither of them were making any effort to move at this point and Rick didn’t know if it was because they were just that tired, feeling the effects of their routine creeping in, or because they still wanted each other’s company…

Rick knew where his views fell, and soon found himself blindly calling out just as Daryl finally turned tail to leave for what must’ve been a third time.

“Wait… Walk with me.”

Rick saw Daryl’s features lighten, that slow dip of his chin too showing he mutually understood before lending a shoulder. Rick took it decently, careful not to hang from it like a love-struck teen as he used it as far as he could, which happened to be until the bottom of the stairs leading to the second level of C-block, where they had to split ways anyways.

Except just as Daryl started to ascend the first couple steps, Rick pulled him back by the fingertips, arching on his toes like he needed the extra height before placing a flowing kiss on the man’s lips. Rick didn’t know why he did it, simply that no one was around to see them and for that he was thankful. Secretly they both were, Daryl just didn’t show it as much.

“If you’re gonna do this every time I do somethin’ nice for ya, I think I’ll do it more often.” Daryl almost sounded sarcastic as he came back for a second kiss like he’d never get another chance. He may’ve been right, though he wasn’t rough about it. The man looked it but if given the opportunity he put care into what he did… care into what he _loved_.

Whether it be hunting or skinning, his timing, his accuracy, it was all there in his body. And Rick knew, he _knew_ Daryl _cared_ , otherwise he wouldn’t have been looking so damn pleased with himself when Rick practically had to push him away and up the stairs with a grunt, thinking he heard something. Better yet, _someone_ – every small sound an onlooker by this point.

“Yeah, well don’t get used to it.” Rick whispered up, slapping Daryl’s ass just before it was shy of arm’s length, during which he kept his tone the same. But after a minute Rick was thinking he should’ve made it a little more serious or else it wouldn’t have sounded so much like a joke, which was no doubt how Daryl took it.

For right now, Rick didn’t see the harm in leaving as it was, though. There’d be plenty of time to let it sink in over the next couple weeks, and Rick waited patiently as Daryl skipped every other step towards the second story in that flimsy towel, watching until he was out of sight before dragging his feet to Carl’s, all the while thinking what he could say when there. Rick had a thought, but once he entered through his son’s curtains he drew a blank when seeing the state of the room.

It was empty. Carl’s bed was unkempt, blanket on the floor and clothes piled in a corner. It looked like typical teenage living, and Rick almost wanted to sit down and wait for his boy to return. But he considered against it when figuring he’d only be postponing the inevitable. His body was already scolding him for some much-needed rest as it was, which was when he decided he’d wait until the morrow to catch Carl bright and early for some family time.

Rick grunted as he slipped a hand through the curtain again to leave, barely setting a foot outside in the hall before bumping into Carol, who all about jumped when she saw him, Rick’s heart doing the same.

“Rick…” Carol sighed after a small pat to her chest. “I was just headin’ to your room.” She held out her other arm, presenting a fresh pair of clothes like they were a gift, a dark pair of jeans and shirt, both folded and additionally clean.

They almost looked new, but Rick knew they weren’t. All their clothing nowadays was second-hand and hard to come by, washed by-hand and hung to dry in the sun, absorbing and holding the scent of nature. If they were lucky, detergent.

“They’re not much, but definitely your fit.” Carol motioned for Rick to swap his wet load for her drier one. At her request, he held them out for her to take, simultaneously keeping a solid hold on the knot of his towel, as to make sure it didn’t fall unexpectedly.

“I appreciate you doin’ this, Carol.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll have these back to you soon… Oh, not these, though.” Carol’s lips thinned with her delicate smile as she shook out his ripped-up jeans. Only, her eyes were elsewhere as she did.

Rick followed her gaze to find her staring at the bruise on his stomach, soon to rub a hand across it in an attempt to shield it from further attention. But she’d already seen enough, and he watched as her eyebrows curved slightly and her mouth faded into a pliable frown, not sure whether to go up or down now. When Rick squinted it still looked like a smile, though. Just more concerned.

“Looks like it hurts…” Carol paused, voice softening. “You OK?”

Rick nodded up at her, turning his body towards his cell. “I will be after a good rest.” Or at least that’s what he hoped, and Carol gave one of his shoulders a small rub, sympathetically but also fleetingly, as she turned to leave.

“You need anythin’ else, just let me know.”

“Actually…” Rick called out, managing to get her to stop so he didn’t have to chase her down. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Carl ran off to, would you?”

“He’s in the library with the other kids.” Carol hesitated with a point. “Want me to get him?”

“No.” Rick whispered. “No, I was just curious.”

_“You take it easy now.”_

Carol’s words stayed with Rick until he was back in his own cell. His arms weren’t as sore as they were earlier because of the hot water, allowing him to pull his curtains down from where somebody’d bunched them above the door. It was probably Hershel or Daryl, seeing as they were the only two brave enough to come and go around him since yesterday. Beth was another guess though, considering how Judith wasn’t in his room tonight.

Rick thumbed one of the lattices of his daughter’s crib, reminding himself to hold her tomorrow – since he was fortunate enough to even _get_ a tomorrow before he straightened out his curtains and dropped his towel, slipping into his pants. The process itself was tiring, how his good leg went in fine and the other gave him some trouble, toppling his balance like a squirrel on a wire.

But Rick managed after a second and fourth try, knowing that he could relax all he wanted once it was over and kept telling himself that well into easing his arms into his button-up shirt, enjoying their flexibility now since he knew they’d be two times as sore tomorrow. Everything would, and he rolled a shoulder at the thought, while he still could, before feeling the bruise on his stomach stretch with the motion.

Rick winced and rested a hand on it, rubbing at the color with a thumb. It was still a nasty purple, and he made a noise through his nose when thinking how long it was going to take to heal. The notion itself kept him preoccupied as he made some headway to his buttons, starting at the lower ones, all the way up until he forgot about it somewhere around his collarbone, until he noticed a fading hickey.

Compared to the mad blush of his other bruises, this mark looked rather small, but in contrast its significance was far greater and Rick stroked at Daryl’s stale kiss affectionately, one of many. It was something he didn’t need to hide, he told himself, since it blended ‘n all, and he left the collar of his shirt open casually as he slowly sat down on the edge of his bed, soon to lean back.

Like when he’d first woke, Rick held his arm tightly to his side, keeping it there well after he settled his head against his pillow. For nothing as morbid as the same reason as earlier, but because right now it felt comforting and he was ready to relax. Sighing helped to some extent, except closing his eyes was what really leveled him, even when knowing that trying to forget _and_ remember the events of the last twenty-four hours all at once was going to be a tough feat.

But as the saying went, all wounds’d heal with time, Rick figured. Daryl’s kiss was just a little reminder of that, that things _could_ get better, and the meaning behind it made a bigger impact than some other blemishes on his skin right now.

And it was these memories that he’d cherish… It was these memories that didn’t _hurt_.


	11. Lost In The Shuffle

“Tell me again where it hurts.” Hershel smiled behind his bushy beard, balancing skillfully on one crutch as he took Rick’s right wrist into his worn hands, monitoring for a pulse.

Rick sighed as he forced himself not to roll his eyes at the formality. He was beginning to think that this visit was a mistake, something he should’ve put more thought into.

Being no earlier than the crack of dawn, he was supposed to be out tending to the garden already, not letting some simple matter turn into a routine check-up. All he wanted was an opinion, no more than that. He didn’t have the time to squander any more of the morning hour than he already had. The worms wouldn’t wait forever and neither would the spring heat, meaning the faster this was over, the sooner he could get back to work.

“Here.” Rick finally said as he stepped back, using both hands in a massage around his clothed ribs, slowly trailing them over his stomach, where he remembered his walker bite’d used to be. The bruise was gone now – had been for at least a few months – but oddly enough it still felt like it wasn’t and he shortly rubbed it down before sweeping a little lower. “Right here.” He told Hershel through a wince. “Spot’s been botherin’ me for a while now. Think I might’a pulled somethang.”

Though in truth Rick didn’t know exactly what he did, but figured it was worth mentioning nonetheless.

“Hurts whenever I lay down for too long, when I’m outside workin’ in the field, when I’m—”

“Rick, I get it.” Hershel lifted a hand in a friendly manner, something officially understood as _let me work_ before hopping a foot closer and motioning for Rick to unbutton his shirt so he could get a look and start poking around, all of which bled well into a couple minutes of silence. “Well… From the looks of things nothin’ appears to be ruptured, so that rules out a hernia.”

Rick nodded wearily, guessing that was good news – _good news_ being all he wanted to hear, really. But before he had a chance to breathe in relief Hershel was pushing deeper, pressing a spot that had Rick growling a slight warning instead of gratitude.

Hershel looked up, eyes almost lost beneath his shaggy brows. “You gotta bare with me here, son.”

His tone sounded more like a physician than usual, and through an impatient snort Rick gave the old man permission to continue, gritting his teeth the entire time, until Hershel stopped altogether with a soft grunt.

“There’s some swellin’ here that has me concerned, but you’ll live.” He pat Rick on the shoulder lightly, adjusting his crutch in a turn, only to notice a heated area of skin around Rick’s neck, almost like a light rash. Intrigued, Hershel leaned back and rubbed at the spot with his thumb. “You been doin’ anythin’ different these the last couple’a days?”

“Not really.” Rick shook his head as he watched, knowing Hershel was probably talking about something work-related – like loitering outside for hours at a time – but that didn’t stop his mind from going straight to Daryl… ‘cause shacking up with him, that was definitely _different_.

Only, that was also months ago. In truth, they hadn’t really slept together since their first, avid night in the shower. Rick made sure of that, mostly since his mood’d seemingly hit a dry spell, leaving him as Hershel saw now. Disheveled and selectively grouchy.

“Are we done?”

“I’d say we are. But…” Hershel trailed as he hopped back to retrieve his other crutch from the table, adjusting them both under his arms with a noticeable clack against the cement as Rick began redressing his chest. “I want you to stay inside for a while. Drink lots’a water, and get off your feet. I’ll ask Carol to cook ya up some meat for extra protein, in case you’re not gettin’ enough vitamins—”

“No.” Rick’s fingers immediately stopped their work on his third button as his expression pinched enough to show disgust. “Last night I couldn’t even stomach the smell.”

“Nausea?” Hershel’s face creased with concern. “How long’s that been goin’ on?”

“Three months.” Rick shrugged a shoulder, seeing as this was almost awkward for him to admit. “Maybe four?” He supposed. “I don’t really know… Lost count.”

“Have you thrown up today?”

“Not yet.” And for that Rick was thankful.

“Any other symptoms I should know about?” Hershel pried, and since they were being completely honest here Rick figured he’d lay it all out on the table as he tucked his chin to finish fastening the last six buttons of his shirt.

“Aside from the aches, I’ve been really tired lately… and breathless, breathless for no reason. Last week, I couldn’t even pick up the shovel without my legs decidin’ to cramp up. It made me irritable, _frustrated_. That’s all I feel nowadays. I’ve been tryin’ to sleep it off, only to find that sleep comes hard, but when it does I’m out for hours, and…” Rick hesitated on his next thought, realizing he might’ve just said more than he should’ve. He almost wanted to laugh too at how all this probably sounded like a rant, which was when he figured he’d stop while he was ahead. “Y’know, Carl had to wake me up yesterday? I’d slept through most of the mornin’ n’ all.”

Hershel’s eyes drooped from the overwhelmed expression he’d been wearing as he listened, waiting a few seconds before replying. Carefully. “That was nice of him.”

“Yeah…” Rick agreed, face blank. “Yeah, I guess it was.”

Though he hadn’t originally thought about it like that, figuring Carl’d let him be so he could get by with a few more hours of shuteye before his sunup chores. Only, after what just transpired, Rick was beginning to think the maybe his boy didn’t want to be around him like this. Moody. That also applied to Hershel, but in this case the old man still had the sway of authority. As his son, Carl didn’t.

“You’re pushin’ yourself too hard, Rick, and I think it’s finally startin’ to take its toll.” Hershel turned as he spoke, soon to crutch back towards the table to push past a few books before holding up a bottle. “I can give you a couple aspirin for the pain, but why don’t ya also take the rest’a the day off? I’ll ask Tyreese to do the gardenin’ and—”

“No. I can’t let you do that. He’s already got too much on his plate.”

They all did for that matter, and Rick didn’t want to be seen as the only one being pampered or using supplies he could do without. The ache in his stomach wasn’t that strong today anyways, not like it’d been of late, so he didn’t need the meds – he didn’t _deserve_ the meds.

With the days getting busier with the weather, it was smarter to use only what they had to. Surely Hershel had to know that, that their jobs were their own, that they all had a role to play in the prison? If not, maybe he’d been giving the old man too much praise. Or just not seeing the urgency of his advice, even this advice.

“I’m sure Tyreese won’t mind.” Hershel tried to promise.

“That’s not the point—”

_“Daddy? Daddy, you in here?”_

Beth’s voice was her normal timid when she called from beyond the cell’s curtain, soon parting it with her shoulder and a peek inside before noticing Rick. More specifically, his back and messy shirt, which had her releasing the sheets in a startled gasp, thinking he was undressing. Not the opposite.

 _“S… Sorry.”_ Beth whispered, obviously embarrassed. _“Didn’t know he was seein’ anybody.”_

“It’s OK, sweetheart. He’s decent.” Hershel chuckled as he set the pill bottle aside, waiting for her to re-enter before moving to greet her. “Now what is it?”

“I wanted to talk to ya about somethin’…” Beth said softly, all the while bouncing Judith in her arms as Rick also turned, which made him realize he hadn’t held his baby at all this week.

He’d been so busy with juggling his routine and the yard that it’d slipped his mind, so he put his hands out in a beckon, motioning for Beth to hand his daughter over. The girl obliged with a gentle pass, cupping Judith’s head as far as she could before turning back to her father to speak, leaving Judith with Rick and his smile.

It was an expression that crept over his cheeks ever so slowly, tickling the corners of his mouth like a feather, and he could only hope that as his lips held it he looked more happy than sad. That he looked _proud_. ‘Cause when he thought about it he _should_ be proud, proud of his baby for surviving to the best of her ability day in and day out.

After all, a prison was no place to raise a child, they all knew that since the very day she was born, yet here she was – in his arms, healthy and getting stronger every day. Better still, she had her mother’s gorgeous looks. Rick dared not think his wife’s name right now for dread of crying as he bumped Judith higher on his hip, watching lovingly as her tiny gaze started mapping the high ceiling like it was an amusement park.

Rick almost smiled wider at the image of his daughter growing up. Though it still pained him knowing she’d never have the same childhood as Carl, that she’d never know what it was like to walk outside the fences without knowing fear, without _feeling_ fear. It wasn’t a life Rick’d wished for her to be born into and he’d give anything, _anything_ to see things different. No death and sorrow, only joy and happiness, back to the way it used to be… how it _used_ to be.

Nostalgia had Rick’s lips considering a frown as he guided his fingers to the nape of his daughter’s head, rubbing it gently as he kissed her briefly, and after she gurgled up at him he decided to keep his smile. The sound was precious in itself, just the remedy for his breaking heart, and he kissed her again, longer, sensing her crinkle her nose and squirm against whatever he had of a beard.

Her fuss wasn’t anything forceful enough to be considered a tantrum, but Rick eased up regardless and gave her a set of fingers to play with as a sort of coax to calm down, something he’d learned from Daryl. And sure enough, it worked like magic. She clumsily took his pointer as her first choice, bringing it to her chubby mouth in a suck, allowing Rick the chance to run his thumb over her chin in admiration.

Christ _._ She was so beautiful, so pink, an unlikely comparison to her blanket which was now an insipid grey.

When tallying up all the time she’d spent crawling around on the floor, it was no wonder the damn thing was so hard to keep clean. This week she wasn’t as wild, but last week it was a sight watching as she tried to find her legs and play with the Legos he’d brought back for Carl – Legos that somehow became Patrick’s. But that kid felt no shame tinkering with toys for tots, and neither did Rick as he remembered trying to help his little girl figure out how to work with the blocks.

His daughter was his bundle of joy, the best thing that’d come from death during this past year and Rick didn’t care if some people still thought she was Shane’s. No matter the truth, Rick was determined that Judith was _his_. His family, a piece of him, his baby, notwithstanding what anybody else said.

Even his memories of his late partner.

Unwilling to admit it to himself, Rick could still remember how badly Shane wanted to be a father. How he’d always proclaimed he’d be a damn good one too, even better than _him_ on more than one occasion, and he could’ve been right. But back then Shane was also a loose cannon, letting the horror of the apocalypse push him into a ditch he couldn’t get out of.

Shane’d lost his way, something that wasn’t evident before Hershel’s farm but more so later, and he had to be put down. ‘Cause he wasn’t just Rick’s problem after that, he was scaring everybody. Lori, Dale, and that’s all Rick was thinking – that’s all he let himself _think_ when he pulled the knife on his best friend.

It was to keep them safe. A group with his wife, his son, and no matter how heinous the act was or how he was to be judged by others, as long as his family was still breathing Rick knew he could live with himself… and to this day he had.

_“Rick.”_

“Hm?” Rick blinked lazily at his name, looking up from his daughter. His eyes met with the owner of the voice first, Hershel, who kindly directed him to Beth. She smiled sweetly at him, appearing as if she’d been standing there with her arms open to receive Judith back for as long as he’d spaced out. Rick silently thanked her patience, and titled his hips maternally before passing his baby girl back to her nanny.

“Seems we’re runnin’ a bit low on food for Judy.” Hershel spoke throughout the exchange. “By the looks of it there won’t be enough for a full meal tomorrow.”

“What?” Rick waited until Judith was safely against Beth’s chest before giving Hershel his full attention. But he didn’t really have the energy to feel cross, only curious. “Why didn’t you bring this up earlier?”

“It just came to our attention.” Hershel admitted, wiggling one of Judith’s toes with a warm smile. “Though lucky for us, she’s startin’ to get her teeth in. So we can give her a couple cans of peaches from our supplies for breakfast, maybe for lunch, but that’s as far as we can stretch it…”

Rick made a bushed noise through his nose. It looked like Tyreese was getting the garden after all. “I can make a run. Today.” He said tiredly, fighting the urge to rub at his face with both hands as he tried to think back to the last area they’d searched.

Having already covered most of the complexes around the prison over the past few months or so didn’t leave much room for options, but then again he had sat quite a few out since then. Meaning, somebody else might’ve noticed one he didn’t and brought it to the board, somebody he could ask. Only, who?

“Carol said she’d seen another neighborhood when out last week.” Beth bounced Judith against her side with a soft grunt, gracefully reading the worry that’d taken Rick’s face. “Might be worth checkin’ out, y’know?”

Rick bobbed his head in response. He did know, and now that he had a destination, all that was left to do was to decide who to bring. In truth, he only needed one or two people, people he could trust to get the job done fast. In and out. Reason being these searches took time and although he still had the day, the sun just now streaming through the prison’s windows, he didn’t need to waste anymore light taking votes. “I can take Daryl, and—”

“No. He’s out huntin’ with Michonne.” Hershel interrupted with a small shake of his head, a shake Rick took as an apology. _Let me stop ya there_ , it said. But Rick’s hopes were already high, and try as he might he couldn’t find the strength to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“It’ll just be me then…”

And Carol, of course.

After all, she knew where this district was, and within the hour they were both outside, next to the front gate, assembling themselves next to one of the prison’s cars. Out of preference, Rick chose the lime colored Honda, seeing as it was the only vehicle to have been fine-tuned recently, upping their chances of getting to where they wanted to go and back safely.

“That everythin’?” Carol asked as she closed the trunk, walking around to the driver’s door, which she opened.

It was her subtle way of letting Rick know that she wanted to take the wheel and he wouldn’t fight her for it. He figured it’d save him the trouble of asking directions during the ride, and finished tossing his bags into the back seat before moving up to the passenger’s side.

“Looks like.” Rick tapered his eyes at her from across the roof until smelling smoke, a smell that had all the fluid in his mouth rushing to puddle under his tongue. He curled his nose and swallowed more than once at the notion of nausea, turning his head to find the source, which wasn’t too hard to miss.

Against the colorless sky, Rick could see columns of smoke rising from a fresh bonfire in the courtyard. Sasha was beside it, tending to it, fanning what she could of the flames and tossing some extra wood into the pyre to keep it hot before wiping at her brow. Just watching her had Rick feeling like he should do the same, but instead he shielded his eyes when reminded of the sun.

So far, this month’d been a fierce one, wilting whatever crops were trying to grow and steaming the cement with an occasional mirage. Some days were so bad that Rick half-expected the long grass in the pasture to go aflame, but right when it seemed like it might that was when it’d rain, making it hard to do anything – like today.

All the firewood Sasha was trying to use was damp from last night’s storm, furthering the smolder in darker puffs as she started to take a hatchet to the bodies of some walkers they’d found lurking around the cellblocks yesterday. Rick guessed they were part of that small group that’d gotten in from the hole in the north side of the wall, the hole that she and her brother’d come though when they first met.

No one had entirely gotten around to fixing it this week, even Rick, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a chore he had on the backburner. Like the build up by the west tower, he knew the stability of the fences meant nothing if that fissure was left unmanned. It’d leave the prison overrun if they weren’t careful, which would be a much bigger problem than yesterday’s little one, Rick made note as he watched Sasha begin tossing any loose body parts into the bonfire, feeling his stomach churn again as the flames finally rose higher.

Even from this distance, he could already catch the true potency of the smells like they were right in front of him. He accursed his nose as he turned away from the sight and shrewdly covered his mouth, feeling a little guilty when suddenly not being able to take it anymore. He should be able to, to handle it, but the stench riding the air seemed headier than usual, more provoking, and he drawled an unpleasant sound when his insides flipped a third time, almost deciding to bring up what little breakfast he’d had. _Almost_.

_“You OK?”_

Rick had Carol to thank when he didn’t. She was pulling him back to his senses before he had a chance to wallow in nausea and he cleared his throat. “I’ll live.” He was quick to spit to the side, thinking the taste on his tongue was to blame, but when finding it wasn’t he silently cursed before motioning for Carol to get in the car. “Let’s get goin’.”

Only, just as he was about to duck himself in, he saw Hershel signaling to him from the crest of the graveled path.

“Rick, before you go—” Hershel called down, looking desperate. He was huffing, making it appear as if he’d just ran a marathon with Carl, and Rick guessed it was important by the expression on his face and the speed he was coming.

“On second thought… I’ll be right back.” Rick tapped the roof of the car, leaving the door ajar enough for Carol to still hear him before mustering a jog to meet Hershel halfway. Though about a quarter up the hill he found himself walking. But it was a fast walk, his hand fighting to keep his returned gun from bouncing all over the place the whole while. “Make it fast, Hershel.” He motioned towards the east with a point. “I wanna get goin’ before it starts pourin.”

Alongside the sun, there looked to be another storm brewing in the distance. Being spring, it wasn’t unheard of for rain to hit two days in a row, not with the clouds soaking up the humidity like a mop. The less mundane question was how long they had before it landed. Rick guessed soon, and as he finally reached the top of the hill a distant rumble of thunder told him he was right… all the more reason to hurry.

“This’ll only take a minute, son.” Hershel hadn’t even stopped crutching his way yet but was still greeting Rick with the same impatience he was being shown. “You remember what we were talkin’ about earlier?”

Hershel’s question had Rick nodding, though he wasn’t all too sure which conversation from this morning the old man was referring to. Only, instead of asking he figured he’d let Hershel tell him that, and looped a thumb anxiously through his belt as he shifted his shoulder towards the car, which was where he wanted to be right now.

“…Yeah?”

“Well, I’d like ya…” Hershel came to an abrupt halt, lips rolling together in a rushed silence that seemed dreading, like he had some bad news. Thankfully, his eventual sigh took some of that away. _Some_ meaning nothing. “I’d like ya to pick up a pregnancy test.”

“What?” Rick felt his face scrunch at the request, no longer just at the sun. He almost wanted his next question to be _why_ , but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. It was obvious Hershel thought somebody was screwing around, so he figured he’d just stick with that. “Who’s it for?” Rick’s shoulders dropped slightly with a guess. “Oh god, Maggie?”

That girl was so young, agile too, not just in spirit, and Rick couldn’t help but think back to how much of a hell it was with Lori. Always running for their lives after the farm, never safe and sound or having enough time for a decent breather, not really anyways – not until the prison. But even with these walls protecting them from the outside horrors, his wife still died on the inside, the pregnancy the death of her, and Rick didn’t think he could take another tragedy like that again, which immediately had him fearing the worst before Hershel pulled him back.

“No. Not Maggie.”

“Good… Good.” It was a relieved reply, weak, but it was all Rick could muster with the way his mind was still working the knowledge. ‘Cause if it wasn’t for her there were no other names waiting on the tip of his tongue, only a question he knew overstepped their trust and his professional discretion – a question he really wanted to know, regardless. “Then who?”

Except that want soon boomeranged and Rick wished he’d left it adrift among the morning heat, heat that was soon so thick and stuffy his sinuses felt like rocks on his face by the time Hershel placed a crutch closer, close enough for Rick to see the seriousness in his old face.

“ _You_ , Rick…” Hershel said. “The pregnancy test is for _you_.”


	12. On The Fence

_Pregnancy test_ and _you_.

Every respectable fiber of Rick’s being that was still responsible for coherent thought told him that those two words didn’t belong in the same sentence together. His body seized up, his tongue touched the roof of his mouth with so many words yet not a single one, and he started blinking like he’d just lost his hearing. Knowing he hadn’t was the worst know-how, his ears still sharp in their age, and that awareness had him still in his posture and silent in his observation, in how to take it all in.

Was Hershel purposely trying to get under his skin? To push him over an edge he was already walking far too close to?

If so, the old man had just given him that final nudge, leaving him to try and grasp the right terms to use, the right terminology to _describe_ how he was feeling. No certain phrase was quick to jump out at him, but Rick didn’t need quick. He needed reason, rationalization, and clarification. He needed to be _grounded_ because right now he felt more unearthed than he’d ever been as he looked over the dirt, the pebbles, the fields, and the prison.

More so, the sky.

Despite being above his shoulders, Rick’s head seemed like it was up so high in the clouds that he didn’t think he could reach it. Because knowledge was power and he _knew_ he heard Hershel right, but now he was beginning to wonder at the same time if Hershel himself knew what he’d just said – if the old man _knew_ how he sounded. Already knocked for six by the claim, Rick wasn’t even going to try to hide his hopefulness.

“Have you…” Rick angled his nose to the ground briefly, not really sure if he had it in him to take a step closer. “Have you lost your mind?”

His voice was low, undecided, but he didn’t want to start pointing fingers at Hershel’s age, how the old man might be getting on in years, that his judgment wasn’t as nimble as it used to be, that it was easier for the heat to go his head. It _was_ Spring in Georgia and it _did_ feel close to ninety today, after all. That would explain it, it had to explain it, and Rick tried not to let himself believe otherwise as Hershel kept staring at him, straight in the eyes with nothing so much as a batter, like he was serious, like he was regarding his own words as if they were an aphorism.

Only, reality had an unforgettable face.

“Rick, just… just hear me out.” Hershel tripped on the request, as rushed as it could be, as he fought for Rick’s attention over a _beep_ from Carol back at the car and an angry grumble of thunder in the near distance. “Hear me out, son.”

Rick rolled his neck in discernible contemplation. Sure, it was something he was willing to try, to try and _understand_. Unbelievably as it was, he still wanted to give Hershel the benefit of the doubt, eaten by the curiosity of what the old man could possibly _say_ to justify this lunacy. There was a brief moment when Rick considered guessing, but candidly he figured any conjecture would hurt him more than listening, seeing as his introspection was the pits of his enemy. When somebody else talked, at least he had the ability to walk away. And right now he was dangerously close.

“All the symptoms you mentioned earlier…” Hershel paused to take a short breath. “I couldn’t help but be reminded of my second wife when she was pregnant with Beth.”

Rick snorted distantly, browning his forehead with a thumb. Known to both of them, it wasn’t an agreeable sign. “Yeah, well… That’s a pretty shallow comparison to run on.”

“It’s an _observation,_ Rick.” Hershel said, careful with his reply. “You’ve been feelin’ fatigued, you told me yourself. Also said you’ve been feelin’ nauseous, and then there’s that swellin’ on your belly. The minor discomforts, the aches and pains…”

Rick stared at Hershel with a mix of detachment and something he didn’t quite know himself. It could’ve been abstraction or it could’ve been mistrust, disbelief, meaning he had to somewhat be in belief to find fault – which he strongly wasn’t, not when this was starting to get personal, his words used against him in a conversation he never thought he’d be having. Nor defending.

“That still doesn’t prove anythang.”

“Well, if we had a pregnancy test we’d know for sure.”

Hershel seemed pretty damn set on that outcome, and Rick knew the old man was judicious, on more than one account proving to be the most erudite person in the prison with his support and suggestions, but that didn’t change the fact that Hershel was beginning to sound like a broken record, like a desperate fool. Rick shook his head. If this was how he sounded when rambling on about his so-called _walker bite_ that day, he was grateful that Hershel was there to set him straight. But this didn’t go two ways. Unlike Hershel, Rick couldn’t recognize the reasoning, he couldn’t _grasp it_. He wouldn’t.

“What’re you hopin’ to ascertain with this bullshit— _from_ this bullshit?” Rick wanted to leave it at that. He wanted to leave _period_ , to hightail it back to the car, to distance himself from this madness, but his bitter pride wouldn’t let him. “Christ, are you even listenin’ to yourself, Hershel? There’s no way what you’re suggestin’s even _possible_.”

“And I used to think the dead walking wasn’t possible.” Hershel admitted, like he’d never forgotten his past mistake and the lives he ruined because of it. “That they were just… lost souls, _people_ in need of healin’.”

“But you were _wrong_.” Rick hardened his stare as he lowered his head, jaw set firm and eye contact maintained. His tone was untreated, zapped of sympathy, but it fit. He was seeking to make it evident where he stood, to remind Hershel that they were still human and capable of making erroneous choices. Because they were, and not a day went by that Rick forgot it. The continuous reminders were always there, the mistakes and breaks, the ghosts and mementos. All they had to do was open their eyes to see them.

But it seemed Hershel already knew that.

“ _Wrong_?” He repeated in a lighthearted chuckle. “That I was… You made that clear to me, son. But it was outta my hands, outta my league. The Lord—”

“We’re done here.” Rick took a step back as if to dismiss himself, to show that he was through with trying to clash on the matter anymore. With the Almighty thrown into the mix, this was where he was getting off, where they’d split ways. After all, he had other things to do, _better_ _things_ , like heading out before the storm. He wasn’t about to waste any more precious time on circles, and after another step he was acting on that assertion, retracing his path down the hill.

Except Hershel was quick to reel him back.

“You had faith in me back then, Rick!” He called with a hop. “Helped me realize my faults and dragged me back from the brink of ruin! I think I deserve a little more reverence than this!”

Hershel was playing the sympathy card, a card meant to stay in the past where it belonged, and although it wasn’t Rick’s intention to be hooked – he was. Not because he thought the old man was right, but because he thought he _wasn’t_ , and Rick quickly made a u-turn to pick up where he left off.

“Then help me…” He stomped right back up to Hershel, hands set firmly on his hips and voice raised but still at a volume kept only between the two of them. “Help me _understand_ what you think’s goin’ on here.” He nodded at himself briefly as if to imply where to start, feeling his stomach flip on tenterhooks but also begin to fill with the bothersome pain of yesterday.

It had to be the stress, was Rick’s conviction. His nervous tension. But even after supposing the cause, tolerating it did anything to maintain his mood. It didn’t change the fact that he was standing here listening to something he didn’t believe, standing on a pile of rocks that riveted his soles, standing idly as the wind brought the storm closer, and standing in ignorance whilst Carol bleated the horn of that damn car – all of it, in its entirety.

Carol was being impatient. Rick _himself_ was being impatient. And Hershel was like a man on a mission with his speech, accusations and assumptions filed one after the other like substantiation to a trial. Many of which, Rick thought he could easily counteract with a strong argument, with _good judgment_ , but at the very least he figured he’d give Hershel some room, a moment to vent.

Taken for granted, Hershel abused the time he’d been given for as long as he could, to the point of breathing hard before indicating any sort of ending. But like all indications, it was merely a suggestion. At the tiniest notice of being interrupted, he was at it again.

Rick closed his eyes as the rambling continued. He let Hershel freely say his peace, whatever he stated he knew, whatever he was trying to make him _believe_ he knew. The old man undoubtedly had the floor, but Rick clocked out sometime in between the shift in themes. The only thing he’d been listening to since was his own inhalation.

In, out… three, four…

For the first minute and a half it seemed to take his mind off his surroundings, but as the seconds dragged on the tight tension in his lungs became more and more noticeable, almost suffocating. It wasn’t until a fifth _beep_ and another clap of lightning that Rick was finally brought back to his senses. But by then that was it. The last straw. Unwilling to waste anymore time, Rick decided that he would lead Hershel on. If he wanted any likelihood of this subject being dropped, he’d have to.

“If I find one…” Rick saw Hershel opening his mouth to add something, gratitude or surprise, but he cut him off with a very dynamic cowboy sway, feet decisively placed in a frozen walk, meaning dissatisfied or not he’s leaving. “I said, _if I find one_ … you _will_ let this go. Am I clear?”

Hershel held whatever gaze was still linking them, face relaxing from its rubicund color as he acknowledged the snub with a slow nod. As a diplomat with years of effective dealings under his belt, he knew a high wall when he stood before one, and right now he wasn’t about to try and knock it down without the right tools. Conviction. Without it, it was better to leave things as they were.

“I’d appreciate it…” Hershel straightened his back as he adjusted his crutches. Somewhere during his lengthy exposition he’d started hunching. “You will, too.”

Rick doubted that but waved Hershel off all the same, determined to not stop for anything this time around. Except he didn’t get very far before the old man called out again.

_“Oh, and Rick…”_

Rick stalled and sighed at the sky, fighting every muscle in his legs not to turn. He didn’t need this as much as Hershel didn’t need to see his eyes roll in frustration. Both of them just had to _feel_ _gratified_ that he waited long enough to hear him out. Though, in the end there was a part of Rick that was glad he did wait. Specifically, his decency.

_“Zipper’s undone.”_

Rick’s shoulders lowered with the words before his head did. Regardless of the seriousness he heard in Hershel’s tone, his suspicions of the old man still had him subtly checking to see if he was being joshed – because if Hershel was struggling to engage in some last-minute humor to try and make the situation less tense between them, as an ambition it wouldn’t have worked. In fact, it would’ve made things worse. But much to Rick’s humiliation, dishonesty wasn’t Hershel’s objective. Being truthful was, and Hershel _was_ telling the truth.

Rick steered his eyes away from his jeans in a sheepish curve, chewing the insides of his cheeks as he located not only his zipper, which was several inches unzipped, but also his button popped from its buttonhole. It took a couple seconds of fumbling, but ultimately he fastened them both after a very cavernous suck-in. As he finished, he let his breath rush out of his lungs, noticeably deflating his chest in a forced sigh. His fingers brushed his belt in the meantime, finding their way between his flesh and his strap as if to test the elasticity of the leather.

He’d never address the mystery of how mutually his zipper and button came undone while his belt didn’t, but it was definitely thought-provoking, something that made him question if Hershel only brought this discovery to his attention to prove a point. Whatever that would be, Rick didn’t care to ask before he conclusively started walking again.

“Gotta get goin’ before it starts stormin’…”

_“You be safe now.”_

Without looking back, Rick waved his approval of the salutation over his shoulder, responsive but not all there to accept Hershel’s sendoff.

So what if he’d put on a couple pounds?

Out there in the fields he was working a different muscle group, hoeing the soil, and pulling out the weeds. He was probably swelling because of that. There was also Hershel’s grand idea of taming the wild pigs and expanding the garden, the extra leg work from the courtyard to the gates and the occasional round-up of the livestock. Just last week he was flopping in the mud and falling on his face with Daryl and Carl after half of the animals enigmatically escaped from their pens, which could very well explain why he was feeling so sore these last couple days – excluding the months before.

But as for that constant sickness?

Rick wouldn’t doubt if it was as simple as saying he was stressing too much and worrying himself sick with responsibility, his nerves affecting his body physically, not just mentally. Maybe he was even getting a cold? He remembered Patrick had one a couple months back. It was memorable because the kid had passed it on to Carl after a mistimed sneeze, who in return could’ve passed it on to him, no matter how late in the season.

Even as a theory it sounded more conceivable to Rick than anything he’d heard in the last ten minutes, and he reckoned it was what he’d choose to believe. As of right now, his choices weren’t limited to him yet. In the short run, Carol’s were.

“Thought I was gonna have to sound for you again… or leave.” She smiled up at him at her own joke as she leaned across the passenger’s seat to reopen his door.

It seemed even after he left it ajar gravity found a way to close it, initiating the automatic locks.

“What was that about?” She asked, appearing more curious than annoyed as she resituated herself comfortably behind the wheel, out of his way.

Rick thought hard at Carol’s question as he caught the door’s frame with one hand, steadying its creaky wobble before looking back over his shoulder to see Hershel already limping his way into the courtyard like today could be considered their average day. When in reality, it was far from it.

“Honestly…” Rick shook his head in a daze before sliding into the passenger’s seat with a grunt, slamming the car door shut with a strapping bang. “I have _no_ idea.”


	13. Out On The Town

Doubt. That was all it took. Whisper doubt into somebody’s ear and sooner or later they’ll start questioning their beliefs and review everything they’ve come to know in light of it.

Rick had Hershel to thank for the stem of insecurity sprouting in his mind, but during the course of the run he refused to see it as anything other than curiosity. Closing his eyes to denial, it was simply his strong desire _to know_ that led to his searching of the bathrooms of their first house, their second and their third, and it was that same desire still that had him crouched in front of the bathroom of their fourth house looking for the fabled pixie-sticks. Playful slang aside, that was what the tests were to him right now – little packets of mystery and myth.

Because who was he kidding?

Rick stalled his hunt after a few more shuffles under the sink, propping an elbow on his highest knee as he pivoted to look around the bathroom. He knew what he told Hershel, but whether it was intentional or not _if_ had emphatically turned into _would_. Rick _would_ find a pregnancy test so he could prove a point. Hell, he was ready to search all day if time and honesty allowed, but in all this chaos there was still that. The truth of the situation.

Intentions out-of-the-way, could he really find something so small? Could he be _fortunate_ enough to find something so small? What was he thinking undertaking a task like this? What was he doing here searching so vigorously for something that was as good as a whim? A rebellious notion?

Rick sighed as he looked down at his empty hands. Even after finding out about the barn and the reasoning behind Hershel’s cause for corralling his deceased family members, he never felt the need to question the old man’s sanity or doctoral judgment before. False beliefs were something they’d both had their fair share of despite the strong evidence against them in the past, which was understandable in the world they were beginning to know as home, but for Hershel to say something so farfetched? Something capricious?

This wasn’t like him, and maybe that was why Rick thought he’d humor Hershel all the same, why he’d show him how _mistaken_ he really was.

After all, with doubt came reassurance, _proof_ , and Hershel’d get it one way or another. Just for today Rick would be back at his old job, back to an officer’s life of _innocent ‘til proven guilty_ , and that was who he saw himself as right now. A cop looking for evidence to prove Hershel _wrong_. But like all searches nothing was straightforward, and when Rick didn’t find anything under the sink that seemed of any use he was soon standing in a huff.

Except he wasn’t ready to give up.

He overlooked the wave of dizziness that blurred his vision, classifying it as careless movement and tension as he started pushing and pulling at all the boxes and baskets on the wire shelves and open cupboards, sensitive to the fact that his rummagings were a hit and miss. Inopportunely, they had been since the beginning of their run and he was starting to get tired of turning up empty-handed. It was actually Carol who’d found what they needed first try – Judith’s formula. It wasn’t the exact brand they’d been feeding her at the prison, but in the meantime it would do, which meant Rick had to fib in order to get Carol stay out longer.

_“Hershel asked me to find somethang for him. Somethang specific.”_

That was as forthcoming as Rick felt he could be with Carol without letting her in on the whole story and without making it sound personal. As far as he was concerned he was here on diplomacy, his own discretion of not wanting the conversation coming back to him in any way. He didn’t expect Carol to reach that understanding, nor did he run it by her after she asked what it was he was looking for exactly. He just wanted her to accept it, apply her help elsewhere, and trust him in his request.

_“Keep searchin’. Let’s see what else we can find.”_

It was understood that since they weren’t here on an official raid they were only to take what they could use, nothing that was imposing but utilizing, and while Rick was in another bathroom with his list Carol was in the kitchen with hers, checking drawers for only the small items and taking inventory of the bigger ones. As risky as it was to leave those behind, provided that they were just scouting today, they figured they had to. If need be, they could return tomorrow with some more able-bodied hands to scavenge the heavier resources more competitively, maybe even put somebody outside on watch to keep an eye out for danger while others explored further.

Rick didn’t want to think in terms of danger just yet, but there _was_ a threat nearby it seemed.

By chance, they’d happened across a small camp a little ways back when cruising into the neighborhood. It didn’t look like much besides badly maintained with its shredded tarpaulin and crooked stilts, but with looks being deceiving it was hard to tell how long the site’d been up, if it was still being used, or if the people who’d been dwelling there had already flown the coop. The leftovers of a gutted dinner – if it was just that – kept them watchful enough to keep their distance and steer clear of the lot, but the urge to find out never dwindled or escaped their attention.

In fact, it was what kept Rick and Carol from splitting up during their search of the other townhouses.

Whatever the situation might’ve been, if the camped group was gone or still around, it was safer in pairs, they decided. It was safer to have people in case of walkers, but also safer to have people in case of _people_. Rick would take walkers over residents any day, given that he didn’t have the lenience to distinguish between lies and truth anymore. That was why Daryl and Glenn were a part of the prison’s recruiting team and he wasn’t. Empathy was in short supply nowadays, mostly from his side of the fence because he had the most to lose, Judith and Carl, but he figured Carol felt the same way about Mika and Lizzie when she started mirroring his precaution as they wandered into the next block.

Except even after searching the few or so subsequent homes there, glancing over their shoulders every now and then, they didn’t see anybody. No strangers or _walkers_ , for that matter.

Their last sighting of the undead was as far back as when parking the car on the main street of town. But they knew better than to think they weren’t out there. Walkers always _were,_ whether they were seen or not. It was their world now and nothing could change that.

 _Not even the rain_ , Rick thought to himself as he pulled his glance from outside the bathroom window to check his watch.

Inconveniently, the storm he’d noticed forming at the prison had finally rolled its way in, giving them no other choice but to hole up in one of the passing houses until it died down. With no indication of letting up though, already pouring but falling harder by the minute, that was beginning to look like it could be a while. More time spent in one place. Routinely, a decision like this was something Rick would’ve normally considered a foolish or unwise move, but as long as they were reducing their chances of catching a chill and quietly making themselves useful, he could easily see himself saying that the last hour and a half was worth the wait.

But so far, it wasn’t.

Rick sighed miserably through his nose as he shook out his wrist wearing the watch before pushing all the drawers he’d previously opened in the bathroom to a close. With each day this month middling spring the climate wasn’t too kind with the heat and right now it was roasting the air like a sauna, making him feel soaked to the bone. He knew that he probably looked like a wet-through mess with how he was standing in a closure with little to no cross-breeze, but he wasn’t going to waste a glance at the mirror to make sure, not when he could already sense how the fabric of his shirt was clinging to his skin without even having to pull at the lips of the plaid, navy button-down.

Only, he tugged at those anyways.

He felt like he had to. With his confidence and good sense discouraged by Hershel’s words, he needed something material to hold on to, not just a guess inferred by assessment, even if that guess was right – which it was.

As Rick continued to fidget with the folds and creases of his shirt, he could noticeably make out dark patches of perspiration staining the front of it, which should’ve had him content in his find, but at the same time he was still apprehensive, particularly when his fingers accidentally brushed his stomach. Because he’d been plenty dirty before and gotten his fill of bumps and bruises, but this tight, almost overstuffed feeling? That was something he couldn’t get over, even with the best pretext, the excuses, and the arguments.

Rick forced himself to look down as he began rubbing his hand over the defined outline of his belt and whatever he could feel of his midsection beneath the textile and body of his clothes. By touch it felt a little more sensitive than what he remembered of normality, harder, but by appearance it didn’t look all that different… Did it?

Incapable of answering his own question with his eyes, Rick finally turned towards his reflection in the cracked glass of the bathroom mirror.

He didn’t want to suppose that his stomach did, but there was no condoning how his shirt didn’t turn in like it used to anymore or how his belly looked rounder even beneath the bulk and looseness of it, protruding just enough to chafe the cloth, not hide beneath it. What he was seeing here was him, his mirror image regardless of how reversely arranged the resemblance was, and Rick kept his gaze glued above the reflection of his waistline in a fault-finding stare, lips pressed in consternation as he tried to work around Hershel’s reasoning again, as he tried to _understand_ why the old man’d said the things he did. Rick still couldn’t fathom the conception and honestly, didn’t think he ever would.

What Hershel implied… it wasn’t right. More importantly, it wasn’t _true_.

Rick thought he was sure of that, but before he knew it his right hand had drifted to stay on his middle, his chin soon tucking to his chest. Hershel was old, maybe even a little crazy… Christ, everybody had that right since day one of hell on earth _,_ but this wasn’t his situation. It _couldn’t_ be. The dead could walk, sure, but for a man to get pregnant? Rick just couldn’t comprehend that. He didn’t _want_ to and shortly both his hands moved about on their own, tracing and massaging all his indents and curves, what he could still feel and what he couldn’t as he searched for an answer, his own conclusion, and reaction.

Rick hoped it’d be different than the one Hershel had gotten from him during this morning’s check-up, but as he wove his fingers into the coarse fabric of his shirt, digging them as far into the taut skin of his stomach underneath, the result was the same. He nearly doubled over in a hunch when hitting that spot again. He didn’t know what else to call it besides that, but it was an area deep inside him, right above his pubic bone, and his tolerance begged for him to stop pushing in and provoking it with a soft growl. He heard the sound escape from his own throat, resonating in a warning to _go easy_ , but it felt weird to have pain involuntarily make the noise for him.

Especially when he wasn’t used to listening to it.

By and large, it was Rick’s common sense that always mollified his actions. It was what told him when to _stop_ or _go_. Physical discomfort never had a foot in his decisions before and a feeling like this was new to him, something he didn’t like one bit. But that didn’t mean he disregarded it. In his own way, he acknowledged it and moved his exploration elsewhere, starting with his shirt. He lifted it, exposing the small stretch of distended skin across the base of his stomach before turning back towards the mirror for a different angle. He wanted to think that it didn’t look as swollen when uncovered like this, from the side, but then again he didn’t really get a long enough glance to think otherwise because a soft voice had him looking elsewhere, out into the hall.

_“Rick?”_

Rick froze at his name, but immediately dropped his shirt. Carol? Dammit. He never heard her come in or even deposit her duffle bag besides the door, which left him wondering how long she’d been standing in the doorway and how much she’d seen. He was still debating with himself that it couldn’t have been much as she entered with a sense of grace, but as her eyes drifted to the floor in decency while he straightened out his shirt with a tug or two, Rick still felt a need to explain himself and shifted uneasily.

“I was just, uh…”

His point at the mirror was lost with the rest of his sentence, but Carol didn’t make it seem like she’d walked in on something awkward or embarrassing. Instead, she made herself busy on the farthest counter by finding and folding a hand towel, letting her presence settle in the room before passing him another glance, this one transitory but still perceptibly worried.

“Everythin’ OK?” She asked.

Rick nodded on instinct, but when he realized Carol was only half-turned he cleared his throat and motioned at the mirror again, strictly at his reflection. “Thought I’d cracked somethang earlier. Couldn’t see if I had otherwise.”

“You been playin’ too hard with the other boys?” Carol teased light-heartedly.

“No, the Governor…” Rick cocked his head to the side at the slip of his arch nemesis' title, like he was detested by how easy it was to point fingers and throw blame. In the innermost part of his heart he was a little sickened, but since it’d already been said and it sounded believable, he figured he wouldn’t try to correct himself as he returned his hand to his stomach – somewhere higher, where his lungs’d be – in a quick stroke. “I’m thinkin’ somethang might not’a healed right. Hurts a little, is all.”

“You mean a rib?” Carol perked, concern now overtaking her features, not just her voice. “It’s almost been four months since then, Rick. You told Hershel about it?”

“Just this mornin’.”

“Well, I hope everythin’ turns out alright.”

Rick hummed his agreeance. He was fairly certain that his face didn’t show his optimism, but at this point it didn’t matter. What was done was done, and he walked himself over to Carol, giving her shoulder a distant squeeze before motioning outside the bathroom window with a nod at the rain. “Come on.” He picked up his bag from beside hers and pushed into the hall. “It’s liftin’. Let’s try the next house.”

And that was how it went for the next hour or so. The next and the next…

They were the same words just in different places, and pretty soon Rick was regretting his judgment of sticking to his promise to Hershel, let alone the task to himself. His back was aching from all the times he’d forced a crouch in front of a sink and his feet were expressing grief from all the traveling between blocks. He was trying for the life of him to hold out until the end of their run, but after they had their long-last altercation with a group of walkers his mindset immediately changed, as did his mood.

For better or for worse, it wasn’t about sneaking by anymore. It turned into annoyed survival. Rick took what he could of his temper out on the dead, separating a few with a sufficient diversion before finishing them off one-by-one with Carol’s help, but never before had it felt so much like a chore, a challenging and unwanted chore.

In the end though, it all worked out and was handled like it always was, with preventative measures. No bullets, just blunt swings.

After all, with their plastic bags nearly filled and their knapsacks exhausting their shoulders, they could do without more company. Ten or so walkers they could control, any more and no matter how high their fighting spirits were the odds wouldn’t bode well. Considering how they were now border-lining some woods, it was either of their guess how many more walkers were loitering nearby or had already been drawn by the noise they’d been making, but Carol and Rick weren’t going to wait around to find out and made sure to slip through the door of their remaining house quietly.

“Last one.” Rick reassured Carol as she started her rounds on the bottom floor without so much as a glance at him, but he didn’t take her slight personally. Her cold-shoulder was understandable. He’d been saying _last house, last house_ three houses ago.

But this time he meant it.

By now they’d seen it all. The backyards, the drained or stagnant pools, the dead dogs and run-down sheds. None of which had what Rick wanted, what _Hershel_ wanted, and Rick knew he had to draw the line somewhere. He just figured the farthest address would be their best bet because it was like a landmark for him, easy to remember with that all-American family from the fifties impression. It looked like the dream home for domestics wanting to trick their neighbors into believing everything was all right, with its nice, white picket fences and tall but overgrown hedges.

It was an appearance that had history, something Rick reckoned the house itself did too when he found himself in the master bedroom on the second floor.

It seemed this family was preparing for a baby, or at least trying to get pregnant, judging from the state of the adjourning room, how all the walls were shaded a light pink with its paint already peeling with unfinished layers and neglect. Rick probably stared at the theme of the room a little longer than he originally intended as he made his way into the bathroom and cracked open the cabinet under the sink, but after glimpsing a box of pregnancy tests, low and behold and in plain sight, he suddenly felt overcome, like he had closure.

Sure, he didn’t have to go out of his way to find these damn strips. He simply told Hershel that _if he found one he’d let him know_ at the time, but as the morning went on, turning into early afternoon, Rick realized that he’d have to face the old man time and time again on each run. And if it wasn’t him that day, then maybe Hershel’d get intolerant and go through somebody else, solicit through others at the prison. Michonne? Daryl?

Hell, that was all Rick needed, more people onboard Hershel’s boat of bullshit, and he shook his head with a bemused scoff. He’d had time to amend his antagonism towards the subject with indifference instead of anger, but he was much calmer than expected at the discovery of the tests and that bothered him in a way he couldn’t identify with – unlike Carol’s attitude towards him, who he knew didn’t appreciate the string along and being led blind.

Though truthfully, Rick didn’t regret it all that much about keeping her in the dark during their time together. Because if Carol knew why he was _really_ here, beholden to a pledge he wasn’t too keen on keeping in the first place, she wouldn’t have been as indulgent as she was earlier. Better yet, they wouldn’t have seen the car graveyard a street over, an area they could siphon for gas or forage for parts they could use to fix the engines they already had.

Of course, it was something they’d have to arrange with the Council, set up groups and take turns in visiting, seeing as right now their only real concern was food and provisions… and the tests, which was a little box that held so much more weight than Rick’s arm when he all but sighed and reached for it. Only, a cry from downstairs had him stopping short of seizing it.

_“Rick!”_

The voice belonged to Carol, and her call was enough to send Rick into the hall without his bag or the box. She sounded scared. What’s more, she also sounded like she wasn’t alone, and when Rick tried to make his way to the first floor he found out first-hand _why_. A walker met him on the walkway, stopping him in his tracks and blocking the stairs. It wasn’t close enough to be regarded as a threat just yet, but Rick knew that it would be soon if he didn’t move, and with nowhere else to go he gradually stepped back into the bathroom.

Needless to say, the walker followed out of visual attraction and avid hunger.

Rick expected as much since he was already seen and habitually reached for his gun the moment it stumbled through the doorway, but when thinking about what the sound could bring he didn’t draw his weapon. Instead, he skillfully guided the corpse towards the shower and used the curtain as a blindfold before bee-lining for the door. Except just as he was closing it his hands flexed in remembrance of not having grabbed his stuff and he snorted despairingly, quickly cracking the frame to see if he could reach any of it from the distant he was at. But unfortunately the walker had already untangled itself from the drape and was approaching again with snarls meant for a wild and sick animal.

Rick curled his lip at the missed chance, but at the same time he didn’t abuse it with bemoaning. He made up for it by letting the walker get close enough to poke its neck out, through the door, before slamming it shut. Hard. He didn’t anticipate severing the head from the body with a stagnant crack of brains, but it happened after he brought the door down again, sending him off balance with a sickened exhale of disgust. His hands wanted to ground themselves on his knees from – what should’ve been – the familiar smell of decay, but that was before he heard a gunshot and his adrenaline whisked him downstairs, enough to tolerate him skipping the last couple of steps in a jump.

“Carol!” Rick called.

He didn’t see her anywhere on the first floor, but the front door was ajar and her bags were dropped at the bottom of the staircase, in the midst of mud and a handful of walkers pushing in through the living room. There were only three or four but their determination made their numbers look like five or six, which was everything more than what Rick wanted to deal with in his confusion of Carol’s whereabouts and he tried to ignore them with a quick walk through the next room – until another gunshot had him outside.

Rick was down the back porch quicker than when he’d climbed it, and by the time he was around front he saw Carol leaned up against the nearest slab of fence for support. She looked like she was in pain, hunched there holding her ankle with one hand as the other had trouble posing her gun. She knew better than to exploit it, but as Rick jogged to meet her he noticed that she had good reason.

The yard.

It was crowded with hissing and gawking walkers, nothing too awe-inspiring, but if they let it get any worse they’d end up overrun. Or _dead_. Only, that was if all else failed. Rick wasn’t about to let it get to that point though and he protectively withdrew his Colt Python, fully aware about what he’d told himself earlier, about what the sound would _attract_ , but he couldn’t afford to leave Carol in danger. So he fired without a second thought as one walker lunged at her, hearing the shot crumble the corpse like a thunderbolt, swiftly and with a loud boom, but he didn’t wait to see it fall like he wanted.

All things considered, Rick austerely made his way over to Carol’s side, offered her his arm as leverage, and straightened her out on three, grunting burdensomely as she threw all her weight at him. His back cringed inly, straining around his spine with an arresting sensation that ended in his legs, but he kept a serious face and accepted the hurt willingly until Carol was ready to walk on her own. Nearing the end of the driveway, she told him that she could, but just as he let her go she hopped in a wince, then a limp of distress, which had him holding her again and glancing down at her ankle in concern.

It didn’t look broken, but it was swelling a deep black and blue, pegging him with worry because even a sprain was bad news, something unwanted and unlucky in the natural state of things, in a reality that called for them to be fast on their feet, not crippled.

But as much as Rick wanted to fight against the world, against fate, crude intervention, and whatever else he could justify it as, he couldn’t ignore the delicate position they were in or ask if Carol needed a minute or two to catch her breath. Only the Almighty knew how much he needed one too, a break or some breathing space, but the nattering of the undead made him realize that he didn’t have much of a choice in this, by necessity or demand.

Meaning ready or not… it was time to leave.


	14. Behind Closed Doors

It felt wrong leaving the neighborhood empty-handed, but at the cost of doing what was right it had to happen.

They _had_ to retreat because there was nothing that he or Carol could do otherwise. Every minute they overspent or wasted on hesitation, that was one more walker they had to evade. Every bullet they fired to protect themselves with, that was three more of the dead attracted and lured out of the woods like animals trying to seek shelter from a forest fire, which in return pushed the two of them further from the house.

Just making it to the car safely had been a feat in itself, the curb on their stay, and with everything episoding at once they didn’t have a chance to circle around and pick up their bags.

The thought had crossed Rick’s mind momentarily, in a moment of naivety after putting the car into gear, but after having plowed over one walker in the process he didn’t want to jeopardize getting anymore flesh mangled in the wheels. It could’ve slowed them down, or worse, stalled them, and with the dead’s numbers as great as they were near the end – looking like a group of twenty drawn by a sound they lost track of over time – the risk wasn’t worth the gain.

It was wiser to be safer than sorrier. It was wiser to live and let live, and try not to interfere with the situation any longer. It was their best option, their _only_ option, and as much as Rick hated the idea of taking leave without their stuff or dwelling on the sense of loss that followed, he was experienced enough to know that he had to abide by standards and responsibility. And right now his responsibility was Carol, not tending to his shot nerves, and he made sure he compartmentalized his feelings however well he could before he pulled the lime green Honda in through the prison’s opening gates and parked it as close as he could to C.

The middle of the courtyard was as far as he could get them because of the bleachers, and as Rick got out of the car he could hear the tinkering of the chain-link gate coming to a close and see a group of people gathering to greet their return. Hershel was there among a few faces from Woodbury, squinting from the afternoon sun with a questionable smile, but only up until his eyes met with Rick’s over the roof of the car and he noticed Rick’s held frown, which was when his expression took on a similar appearance. Especially after Rick moved around to the passenger’s side of the vehicle and helped Carol up from her seat, revealing her fair share of grass stains and scrapes, his included.

“What happened?” Hershel asked, voice startled as he limped up behind them.

“She fell.” Rick answered for Carol as he steadied her, then maneuvered the door closed with his hip. “Her ankle, I think it might be dislocated.”

“I said, _I’m fine_.” Carol protested, but Rick didn’t believe her.

She had been telling him that ever since he loaded her into the car, murmuring the phrase like she was trying to convince herself of the meaning, not just him, so he wasn’t taking any chances with her. She could try to act strong all she wanted, but there was no hiding the shock still shaking her tone or the pain in her steps. Rick was sensitive to it all with how close she was to him, pressing into the right side of his body and draping an arm around his neck, and he took as much care as he could with her while acting as her crutch. Getting up the stone steps was the trickiest part, but after conquering them and descending the next set inside the cafeteria was within arm’s length, which was where he decided was far enough.

“You got it?” Rick asked as he lowered Carol down onto one of the four seats at the nearest table.

Carol nodded in brief with a winded, “Yeah.” from all the hobbling, one hand already out and grasping towards the tabletop for support, and as she finally sat, Rick gave her some space with a step back, resting his own hand on his hip as he took a much-needed breath.

“Hershel?” Rick pointed to the seat opposite her with his other hand, giving the old man the cue to do his thing before resting that hand on his hip as well.

“OK, Carol.” Hershel said in his best doctorly tone, smile warm, as he propped his crutches beside the table. “Let’s take a look at that ankle.” He motioned for Carol to present her leg forward with his chin as he sat, waiting for Carol to pull up the slack of her pants high enough to reveal the injury. “Can you hold it out for me?”

The spacing in between the seats gave Hershel a little difficulty in reaching her ankle, but it was better than kneeling. He couldn’t afford to with his amputation and resulted in hunching as he took her foot into his hands and set it on his knee, touch gentle around the angry and bruised skin. There was a fleeting moment when he looked like he was going to try and roll the ankle himself, but as if picking up on his intentions Carol did the movement herself, eyes wincing in the process. Rick felt his eyes do the same in observation of her pain, and as she continued with a couple more rotations he bided his time by slipping from the room and into the neighboring cellblocks to grab the first-aid kit they had on hand. He returned shortly to find Hershel concluding his assessment.

“How bad is it?” Rick asked as he handed Hershel a roll of gauze he’d already fished out from among the other supplies.

“Well…” Hershel accepted the cloth on the offer, turning back to Carol as he spoke. “Good news is, it’s only a mild sprain.” He said as he started to wrap her ankle.

“And the bad news?” Carol’s light brows pushed up in concern.

“You’re gonna have to stay off it for at least a week.”

Carol hummed like she was expecting worse and Hershel chuckled softly across from her as he glanced sideways at Rick, hoping to see a smile in return for the evaluation but finding only a distant stare. Worried, he let his quiet laugh trail, shortly clearing his throat after a few seconds of observing.

“What about you, Rick?” Hershel asked in between a few more wraps, actions going over and under professionally. “Anythin’ I should look at while I’m at it?”

“What?” Rick blinked as he pulled his focus away from Carol’s ankle, where it had fallen. “Oh.” He concisely looked down at his body before shaking out a wrist, feeling some dried walker blood crack on his skin at the motion. “No… I got lucky.”

“No. We got _stupid_ , pushing our luck like we did.” Carol sounded a little evasive as she finally found her voice again. “If only we’d left earlier…”

She looked up at Rick as she stopped talking, her gaze candid but also accusing, like he held some sort of suspicion, and Rick felt the fingers of guilt wrap around his heart and squeeze cruelly. He knew what Carol was getting at. The look helped, but the censure in her tone said it all, and he met her expression with a tolerant sigh before dropping his eyes to the floor and flopping one hand by his side as he nodded. He’d take the blame, he figured, the fault for putting her in that type of situation. After all, it was only fair, especially when she was right.

The need to prove Hershel wrong had acted as a visor to the dangers around. Motivated by it, Rick had made the wrong call, was driven for the wrong reasons, and it was that single-mindedness that cost them an injury. Above all that, though, trust.

“Rick said you asked him to pick somethin’ up.” Carol said mindfully and after a minute more of watching Rick nod, she turned her attention towards Hershel instead, missing the self-conscious glance from Rick. “What was it?”

Hershel unintentionally let his eyes slope Rick’s way as he opened his mouth, noticing how Rick’s too was opening to reply, to cut in if anything unnecessary should be said, but Hershel knew where his place was and shortly gave his own chest a small pat before smiling back at Carol. “Just… some cough medicine. I’ve been feelin’ a bit congested is all. Nothin’ too bothersome, but I didn’t want anybody worryin’ who didn’t have to.”

Carol’s features softened at Hershel’s explanation, but only enough to show sympathy, not conviction. In fact, her lips were pursed like she still had something else to add, except Hershel motioned to her foot before she could try again, lowering it gently from his knee and onto the floor with another smile. A dismissive smile.

“I’ll go n’ see if I can find somethin’ to use as a hot compress. In the meantime, you sit tight.”

At that, Hershel stood up to collect his supports and as he showed himself out, deeper into C block, Rick wasn’t too far behind. He waited the length of five clacks from Hershel’s crutches, then left the first-aid kit open for Carol on the table and followed after a few seconds or so, letting an awkward silence hold him and Hershel like a hug until the both of them had wandered a decent distance from ear’s length, mind Merle Dixon’s watchful eyes from within one of the passing cells. Rick made sure to walk a couple extra feet after seeing him of all people within spitting distance, to about the arch under the stairs, and as he stopped he cold-shouldered Merle, who was now slithering out from behind the bars, calm and steady like a snake in the grass – always there, but only noticeable when he moved.

Given that Merle had been with them ever since escaping Woodbury, Rick thought that he’d have grown slightly more lenient towards such a presence by now, but it was still taking some getting used to and Merle wasn’t making it easy on anybody. Glenn especially, who was having the hardest of times coping with how Daryl had successfully managed to talk Rick into letting Merle stay. By all means, Rick understood the animosity behind Glenn’s dilemma, felt the same indecisiveness about the decision, but there was no going back on it now because it wouldn’t be fair… or just.

Merle was Daryl’s brother, after all. The man’s flesh and blood. His _family_. After going through hell to find his own, Rick didn’t want to deny Daryl his, but that didn’t go to say he ever took the company for granted. On good days, it was more like he put up with it. On bad days – like today – it was too irksome to ignore, and when Merle finally twitched something that looked like snoopiness, a lazy lean to the outer bars for a better angle of him, Rick led Hershel a little further to the side and made sure the old man was facing away from Merle’s line of sight before making any head on their conversation. Because although Rick had never asked Daryl about it personally, he had a hunch that Merle knew how to read lips.

Wordlessly and thankfully enough, Hershel seemed to sense Rick’s hesitancy and he humored it quietly, but at the notion of speaking first Rick quickly raised a palm in a gesture to stop.

“I know what you’re gonna ask, Hershel, and the answer’s no.” Rick eased his fingers over the holster of his gun as he shrugged. “Walkers showed up and I dropped everythang. My bags, I left Carol’s by the stairs. We were pressed—”

It was Hershel’s turn to hold up his hand. “I wasn’t even gonna bring it up, son. I’m just glad you two got back safely.”

So was Rick, but somehow he couldn’t quell the persistent knot growing in his stomach, a feeling like something bad was coming over the horizon, and his lips were already parting on their own with a rushed, “I’m goin’ back for ‘em,” before he had a handle on his emotions, on what he was _implying_ , which was a statement that didn’t sound like something he’d normally consider saying, let alone doing. Except maybe that was because he was thinking more like a parent right now instead of a leader, like a worried father instead of a rational mind.

From the look on Hershel’s face, that was how he was taking the reply, but instead of putting Rick on the spot for carelessness he simply eyed him gently and asked, “For what?” as innocently as he could, like he was hoping Rick would hear the recklessness himself through answering the question. He should’ve known better, though. As should’ve Rick.

“The bags.” Rick expressionlessly waved a hand back towards the cafeteria, imaging it as the direction of the townhouses. “Our supplies.”

“No…” Hershel shook his head, face going visibly stern. “No, you’re not. Things like that, they can wait. Please. We can organize this a little better, get a group together.” He hopped in place once when noticing Rick’s attention straying upwards, towards the catwalk like he was looking for Lori. “You’re upset, that’s understandable, but you can’t overlook safety for supplies. You have to think—“

“I am _thinkin’_.” Rick snapped as his hand hesitated in pinching the bridge above his nose, eye contact indirect like he was afraid it was enough to change his mind. “I’ve been doin’ it since I got back, since day one for this group. You’ve never had a, a problem with my decisions before, why start now? Why _start_ when I’m makin’ this one for me?”

For _Judith_. Her name went unspoken, but it was understood that she was the only thing on Rick’s mind because she was family, a part of him who needed food, her formula, which was in the bags. The bags dropped, left out there in the open, and Rick couldn’t ignore them like that. He couldn’t _chance_ it, not when there was still so little known about the small camp he had seen with Carol during the drive, about the camp’s size or its people’s goals. Even their status, if those who ran it were still alive anymore or currently dead. All were possibilities he had to juggle, possibilities as likely as the next in terms of rivalry and the mindset of _first come, first serve_ , but as of now they would act as his motivation – information to be – which was something Rick would leave for Carol to bring up with the Council later, seeing as any talk about it now would only strengthen Hershel’s case. Not his.

“I’m goin’, Hershel.” Rick said as he pushed the old man by. “You can’t stop me.”

“Rick!” Hershel raised his voice as he swiveled on his crutches in a following turn, which was enough to stall Rick and rouse a snort from Merle, who was trying to look inconspicuous that he had moved closer. But the distance was noticeable, three cells instead of four, and while Rick threw a sidelong glare at Merle for being a derisive jackass, Hershel slowly approached Rick from the side. “Son.” His inflection was lower this time, calmer, as he drew nearer. “Can we just… Let’s just consider our options for a minute.”

“No.” Rick shook his head as he twisted his body back towards Hershel slightly. “There’s nothin’ left _to_ consider. You, you said so yourself, Hershel, _it’s always right now_ … and _right now_ , I’m goin’ back.”

“Rick, please.” Hershel tried to get Rick to look at him once he was close enough and stable. “Wait ‘til tomorrow, for a group. Tyreese, maybe Sasha. _Daryl_.” Rick was looking now. “You all can go then, and—”

“No.” Rick sent one hand waving out towards the cafeteria again, eyes tracking the gesture temporarily and then coming straight back. “What if somebody else raids the house? What then, hmm? Do you want all our hard work to be for naught?”

Because Rick didn’t. He’d had enough of fostering the feeling of failure ever since morning, ever since leaving the neighborhood without their supplies, and if there was any way to make that right again he was going to take it. He _had_ to take it to make Carol’s injury seem less in vain, and Hershel could try using coercion all he wanted, but there was no talking him out of it. Rick was already leaning one way, headstrong like a horse, because the weight he was carrying now, the guilt of putting Carol in danger and not having any food for his daughter, it was unbearable. Soul-sucking. The tests were second rate by now, in the back of his mind and the true fault-bearer for everything that’d happened earlier, and Rick wanted to fix his mistake. He _wanted_ to make up for it, and doing this was one of those steps he needed to take.

“I know where the bags are, Hershel. I _know_ I can get them back.” Rick said, tone as final on the matter as the determination on his face as he made to leave again, this time successful and undeterred by Hershel’s frustration, which only came as a look, like there was nothing else the old man could think of to lay down as an excuse.

Good, Rick thought as he steered clear of C block without so much as a glance at Merle on his way out, because he didn’t need any more words on the subject anyway, only the building confidence that _he had this_.

Except confidence was like faith, a disagreeing force and a tricky thing, and in the end Rick didn’t really have anything after he parked the car in the neighborhood save for an address – or at least the memory of one, of a house surrounded by a white picket fence, but remembrance alone made the lot easy enough to relocate because it was the only enclosure of its kind on the block. It was actually the number of walkers still wandering around the area that had Rick mostly concerned, and he could only pray that the house with the dropped supplies was cleared of any stragglers as he entered it, using the kitchen door instead of the one he and Carol had slipped through earlier on in the day.

Precaution had a hand in his decision to change things up, to take a different route, and once he was inside he stayed low the entire time he moved about, feeling the burn of it all zip through his thighs the whole while he kept his knees bent. His back also felt some of the strain with how his upper body was constantly being brought forward and down, but he couldn’t afford to stand tall just yet. Even with everything indoors looking relatively untouched, he was still in hostile territory and on the clock, meaning he was still expected to crouch and take cover behind fixtures to avoid detection. Support was a go-between, something he took advantage of whenever he could, and after making it to the bottom of the stairs he made a daring jump across the gaping archway of the front door, where he closed the frame little by little, thinking it would buy him some time if the walkers outside started getting restless or snoopy, which was bound to happen sooner or later.

Rick was all for the latter as he grabbed Carol’s bag and tackled the flight of steps upstairs for his pack next, but there was no telling what to expect in a big house. He was already making the mistake of neglecting to check if the coast was clear or not before ascending, and the hair on his arms stood on end every time the railing of the stairs creaked under his touch and every time the old wood of the treads groaned the more he tried to be as quiet as possible. Nearing the top, he got fed up with shushing his actions and decided to skip a couple floorboards because of how rickety they looked, but once on the second story he was crouching again, up until he found himself in front of his destination.

The bathroom. It was stagnantly marked by the walker he’d dropped earlier, body outside and head peeving away within, which Rick soon kicked to the side with the tip of his boot before walking over to his bag. It was in his hands shortly after a scoop, and as he straightened out he dusted away some of the blood that had spattered the fabric. It wasn’t enough to turn him off, but the smell of decomposition was, and as soon as Rick slung his bag over his shoulder to join Carol’s, he covered his nose with his wrist as he felt some bile rise into his throat like backwash. There was a gag somewhere in there too, but he didn’t allow anything to come up because there wasn’t much of anything in his stomach anyway. He was running on fumes, standing on the last legs of his energy, none of it provided from breakfast, only adrenaline.

Rick knew that for a fact because he had skipped it this morning, by choice, his own volition. Even now he was leaving the bathroom on his own accord, without force, but somehow his legs only allowed him to abscond as far as the door before being prickled with the sensation that they had to stop, with the sensation that he was _forgetting_ something. Dammit. He didn’t even have to turn back towards the scene of the bathroom to know what that something was, but that didn’t go to say he wanted the box of pregnancy tests anymore… Right?

Rick adjusted the bags over his shoulder with a bounce before he threw a fleeting look under the sink. He didn’t want to consider himself so naive, but as he stared at the box intently the urge to collect it almost became undeniable, the mixed feelings too overwhelming. There were as many negative thoughts as there were curious ones, and while muttering a set of curses to himself he ultimately returned to the counter, internal conflict as strong as ever. Even after he finally got down on one knee in front of the fixture his desire to follow through or forget the box was still opposing as he read and reread the label, as he criticized the sticks inwardly, _blamed_ them, but no later than he was shaking his head at the ceiling he was also snatching the damn thing up and stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans like it was a packet of drugs he didn’t want to be seen procuring.

It was a moment in time that made Rick feel like a dirty cop, also a moment that made him realize he had overstayed his welcome, and after pushing himself to a stand he made to leave again, to finally put this place behind him. Although it seemed like the house had other plans for him, _karma_ , and like a form of repercussion for getting distracted one of the steps gave out from under him halfway down the stairs. Through the plank his foot went, the crack of the wood loud and unexpected, but with a quick pivot and nab at the hand railing Rick managed to save himself from falling forward. Not his foot, though. That was swallowed up by the splintered hole on contact, held there by gravity, then removed from it by fear – especially after he glanced up to see a handful of walkers gathering at the bottom of the staircase, the front door still closed behind them.

Somehow, it looked like they’d found another way inside while he was upstairs. Rick wasn’t going to try and guess where that second entrance was with how all dead eyes were now gawking up at him, hands now reaching out for him, like some fish behind glass… minus the glass itself, and as one stumbled its way up the steps Rick quickly walked himself backwards until the top of the stairs. Every step after was like a footrace, and while the trailing walker tripped on the very tread he’d just broken, fell flat on its belly, and did nothing to stop the other six from blindly trampling its body like another foothold, Rick hugged right and ran towards the farthest door at the end of the hall.

Having swept the house earlier on in the day he knew there was a smaller bedroom behind it, and once inside, locking himself in was his first action of focus. After throwing the bags from his shoulder and to the middle of the floor, finding something to reinforce the door with was his next concentration, and during a brief scan of the room he was reminded of the dresser adjacent to the twin bed. It stood chest level, stood as the closest movable thing available to him, and in no time he was scattering whatever items were frivolously cluttering its top to the floor with a few sweeps of his hands and pushing the big thing towards the door. As its height suggested it was as heavy as it looked, moreover felt like he was trying to goad a man, and halfway through his efforts he switched to pulling it instead.

Thankfully, that worked out better than Rick thought it would, and before the banging of the walkers on the other side of the door started the dresser was soundly against the frame, giving him the breathing room to pray that it would hold. In such a case that it didn’t though, he pressed his back against the fixture for good measure, riding out a few sporadic juts from the persistent walkers beyond the door and listening to the woodwork being torn at by a tornado of nails and teeth.

By ear, it sounded like there were more than a few dead bodies out there now, pushing against one another and butting heads like greedy swine at a feeding trough, Rick being the food, and their grunts soon mixed with his own as he tried to keep them at bay, as their energy grew in strength and his weakened. Even the carpet beneath his feet didn’t give him enough friction to hold them off, and once there was a sudden crack from the wood – simply a sound, yet worthy enough to keep him on his toes – he didn’t think twice about staying by the dresser for another second. He ducked like he was trying to escape the grabbing of imaginary hands and stumbled away from the door, sure to snatch the bags before hustling towards the back of the room, towards the windows.

There were two in the small space of the bedroom, but with how they were angled side-by-side and set in front of a built-in window seat they created the illusion of one. The seating itself was smaller than the average household size, looking like it couldn’t really hold anything bigger than a foot. Except that was all Rick needed, a foothold, somewhere to put the bags as he fumbled with the latches, discovered the left one as stuck tight, and resorted to hitting the right one a few times with the heel of his palm when feeling manageable resistance, which was when the pane finally slid up and he readied one of his boots on the sill, leaning forward to look out and down, to determine the span of the roof and measure the drop.

It glanced about a good ten-feet in both directions, but Rick didn’t care because with his life on the line all he needed was a reason to jump. All he _needed_ was a way out, a plan B if the walkers made it inside. A good plan. _This_ plan, Rick thought, but as he continued to drag his gaze across the front yard to see five or six more walkers shuffling aimlessly across the lawn, his breath slowed at the possibility of actually pulling such a stunt off safely. Because in reality all he _really_ needed was to land wrong. Or worse, to break something while trying to get off the roof, meaning he’d be no better off than where he was now.

And Rick wasn’t ready to risk that… just as he wasn’t ready to admit he was _trapped_.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've been with us since the beginning of this work, then you've probably already noticed that some of the story has been overwritten, but don't worry another hair on your head because the rest will be resubmitted **ASAP**! If this is your first time reading, however... welcome!
> 
> This "overwriting" has happened because we decided to split the original chapters up to about 6-7 PAGES each - 8 PAGES if we're desperate - since we just can't find the time to sit ourselves down to type up and/or critique 10-12 PAGES per chapter anymore due to our studies. That, and it'll make re/submissions quicker in the future... With that said, this story is going to be 20 CHAPTERS when we're finally finished updating to where we left off. Also, for those of you who were caught up to the original CH10 keep an eye out for **CH21** , which will technically be CH11.
> 
> Our apologies for the ramble. We really hope this makes sense? If not, please don't hesitate to leave a comment. We'll try our best to clarify.
> 
> Thank you so very much for taking the time to read this note. We swear a complete chapter update like this won't happen ever again... But if we do end up going back on our word you have our permission to Falcon Punch us in the face. Please, be gentle. ♥♥


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